


Chanel

by dilaudiddreams



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Blowjobs, Bondage, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Emily is a lesbian, Fluffy Ending, Fraternization Between Bureau Employees, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, I love pretty boys with big brown eyes, I tried hard to keep everyone in character, I tried to be funny, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mention of spanking, Oral Fixation, Penelope is a beacon of hope in this dark world, Pining, Porn With Plot, Spencer Wears Makeup, hopefully some parts of this are funny, major smut in later chapters, mention of choking, title from Chanel by Frank Ocean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:48:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25044148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dilaudiddreams/pseuds/dilaudiddreams
Summary: Penelope mentions offhandedly one night that she thinks Spencer might look good in makeup.Spencer takes the suggestion to heart.Derek likes the new look - and Spencer - more than he probably should.(Set during season 4.)
Relationships: Derek Morgan/Spencer Reid
Comments: 138
Kudos: 760





	1. Something Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to my first CM multichapter fic :))  
> Hope you enjoy it a lot! Comments mean the world to me, so I'd really appreciate feedback if you enjoyed this!

Spencer Reid doesn’t have a driver’s license.

When he was 16, he was starting graduate school and hadn’t lived at home in a few years, so he didn’t exactly have a real opportunity to take Driver’s Ed. When he’d come home for the summer and winter holidays, his mother was rarely lucid enough to _recognize_ him, let alone coach driving practice, so it just never happened.

It wasn’t until Spencer started at the BAU at the ripe old age of 21 that he’d learned. Much to his chagrin, Hotchner had taught him; he’d made it clear that Spencer did not have a say in the matter, and that they would be meeting in the parking lot of the abandoned JoAnn Fabrics 2.3 miles from the Bureau every Sunday afternoon at 2:30 from that point on. Of course, Spencer was never one to argue with his superiors, so he’d learned the basics in the Hotchners’ blue Ford Focus (which he only damaged a _little_ bit.)

So, yes, _technically_ , Spencer can drive, in the sense that he is physically capable of operating a vehicle. 

However, it is still very much _illegal_ , and he’s _lousy_ at it, so he tries to avoid it at almost any cost. 

As such, he would very much prefer to avoid driving some of the FBI’s best, most valuable, and most intoxicated minds around the city on a busy Saturday night, but “Derek is busy” (apparently), and Penelope had actually _pouted_ at Spencer when she’d asked him if he’d be their DD in Derek’s place this week. 

Since Spencer is a pushover who absolutely hates seeing Penelope upset, he’d said _yes_ , and here he is, in a two mile traffic jam with JJ’s arm around his shoulders as she sings off-key over the radio.

So far, Spencer is thoroughly not enjoying Girls’ Night Out.

“I’m thinking of shaving my head,” Prentiss shouts from the back seat.

JJ gasps and withdraws her arm from Spencer. _No complaints here_. “ _Em_ ,” she cries, in genuine distress, as though Emily’s just announced that she’ll be killing her husband and drowning her kids in the bathtub. “Your hair is so _beautiful_!”

“Oh, baby girl, _I_ think you should,” Garcia says. “You only have _one head_.”

_That doesn’t make sense_. 

JJ unbuckles her seatbelt and whips around to face their colleagues. “ _Em—_ ”

“Hey,” Spencer protests. “JJ? Can—can you put that back on? I—the traffic is—I don’t want you to fly out the windshield if…?”

“ _Shhh_ ,” JJ hisses, petting Spencer’s head like she’s soothing a spooked horse. Jesus, Derek owes him big time for this. “ _Em_ , don’t shave your beautiful hair.”

“Shave it,” Garcia says. “Fuck your hair! It’s hair! It will grow back!”

“You’ll look like a _lesbian!_ ” JJ wails.

“I _know_ ! That’s why I want to _do it_! People don’t clock me—”

Penelope shrieks. “They don’t clock you?! Yeah, and they don’t clock...fucking...who’s someone that’s obviously gay? _RuPaul._ ”

“ _Clock_?” JJ asks.

“Oh, baby—”

“Alright, _please_?” Spencer interrupts. “Sorry. Please put your seatbelt on? Hotch will kill me if something happens to you.”

Vanquished by the inherent embarrassment of not understanding a reference, JJ sits and buckles back up. “We love you, Spence,” she promises. “No boo-boos here.”

“Yeah. Not yet, maybe.”

* * *

They arrive at their final destination of the night— a tiki-themed bar downtown—fifteen minutes later with no further incidents. 

Penelope buys Spencer some kind of glorified, overpriced smoothie (a “virgin strawberry-lime margarita with whipped cream and a cherry on top”) and tells him how much she loves him, and then the girls go back to talking smack about other people from the Bureau. 

Spencer counts the tiny tiles in the mosaic on the wall opposite him and tries his best to tune them out. 

He can’t help but wonder whether he comes up in these less-than-kind conversations when he’s not sitting there. 

He imagines that he does.

Women don’t like Spencer very much (neither do men, actually, but women _especially_ don’t), and he can’t think of a real reason why _these_ women would be any different. It’s not as if they’d asked him along because they want to be friends—they’d asked him along because they needed a favor from him, and even for _that_ , he hadn’t been their first choice. Penelope had only asked him to drive because _Derek is busy_ tonight. 

It’s no wonder, really – even stone cold sober, Morgan _oozes_ charm. He’s a natural performer. Every room he enters seems to be immediately occupied by either his playful, charming personality or the threatening, imposing facade he seems to be able to instantly put up whenever he so chooses. He’s probably a lot more fun to have as a babysitter than Spencer (who is still silently counting tiles), not to mention the fact that Spencer is about 125 lbs sopping wet with, and they likely feel no safer with him here than they would _without_ him. 

Spencer is yanked out of his head by the sound of his name.

“It’s a _gradient_ ,” JJ is insisting. She’s poured a packet of salt onto the table and is dragging her pointer finger through its spilled contents. “It’s a gradient. Men can have a...feminine charm or a masculine charm. There are different kinds of sexy.”

“Name a man who has charm,” Emily demands. “ _One_.”

“Morissey,” Penelope says.

“ _What_? Fuck you.”

JJ persists. “ _Listen_. I think Spence has a pretty feminine charm. Don’t you think so?”

_Feminine charm._ Fantastic. 

“I think he’s like a little baby,” Penelope coos, grabbing his chin. Spencer’s going to ask her to please not touch him, but he doesn’t, because he has a feeling she’s not going to listen anyway. “Little baby charm. Look at him. Little baby puppy dog eyes.”

“I agree with Garcia,” Emily says. “Wait, how old are you, Reid?”

“I’m 27,” he mutters. “Uh, not exactly a _baby_.”

She gasps. “Oh, honey. Baby boy, they’re gonna eat you _alive_ out there, you know that?”

Spencer, who has already been abducted, tortured, killed, resuscitated, and forcibly injected with narcotics, just shrugs. 

“Listen to me, sweet little thang,” Prentiss continues. She points a finger in Spencer’s face. “You—”

“Em, _please_ shut up,” JJ orders. “Listen. I think that Spence—like, for example, he’s not the only one—is pretty, for a boy. Would you agree?”

“I _do_ agree,” Penelope says. “I say that all the time.”

_She does?_ “You do?”

“Sure. Derek and I talk about it.”

_They do?_ “You _do_?”

Penelope rolls her eyes. “Duh. He says that _all the time_. Like—we think you should try wearing makeup. You know, just something light. Blush, maybe? Not a lot. You could pull it off.” 

Spencer’s heart pounds. He swallows embarrassment. “Did he _actually_ say that?”

“Mhm.”

“Okay, see, that’s what I mean,” JJ continues. “You don’t ask Derek to wear makeup, because he’s on the _other end of the spectrum_.” 

“I _do_ ,” Penelope protests. “Black eyeliner?”

“ _Ooh._ Okay, yeah. But—you get what I’m saying, right?”

“ _I_ get what you’re saying,” Emily says. “And I think it’s the cheekbones. Jawline, maybe?”

“Ooh, the cheekbones. True.”

“I’m sitting right here,” Spencer protests, in genuine horror at the direction this conversation has taken. “And, actually, I’m really tired. So if you guys are done, I kind of want to get home.” 

He doesn’t like the tone he takes. It’s demanding and bratty and not him at all, but it’s far too loud in here and far too late at night and he feels humiliated and completely emasculated and very, _very_ close to tears; he’s going to burst if he spends one more moment looking at that fucking mosaic. 

The girls look at him with a combination of pity and what looks to be annoyance. This is all anyone ever seems to have for Spencer.

“Sure,” JJ says after a moment. “I’m ready to go.”

* * *

When he drops her off at her apartment—the last stop of the night before the sweet release of _finally being alone—_ JJ turns to him and sighs. “I’m sorry, Spence.”

“For what?” 

“Embarrassing you. That wasn’t very nice of me. I didn’t...I didn’t think you would...mind that until I saw your reaction.”

“I didn’t mind at all.” (He certainly did.)

She reaches out her arms, inviting Spencer to hug her. 

“Please just go inside,” he begs. “I...have a headache.” 

JJ gives him a glance full of _something_ as she walks to her front door, but he doesn’t look at her long enough to puzzle it out. 

He’s tired of seeing the same thing.

* * *

Spencer isn’t able to get to sleep at all on Sunday night.

He’s well versed in insomnia, so the simple fact of lying on his back, staring at the ceiling with dry, burning eyes and a racing mind doesn’t bother him, but he’s disturbed _all night long_ by his Friday night exchange with Penelope.

_“Derek and I talk about it.”_

_(Why?)_

_“We think you should try makeup.”_

_(Why does Morgan think I should wear makeup?)_

_“He says that all the time.”_

_“We think you should try makeup.”_

_“Did he actually say that?”_

_“Mhm.”_

_(Why?)_

_“We think you should try makeup.”_

Spencer finally resigns himself to a full day of exhaustion at six, rolling out of bed and staggering into the kitchen with intent to make enough coffee to give himself a heart attack.

He catches a glimpse of himself in his bathroom mirror as he passes down the hall, and he can’t help but notice that he looks like utter shit. The dark circles that permanently taint the space beneath his eyes are about ten times worse than they are when he sleeps, and he’s rocking some sort of nausea-induced pallor extreme enough that his mother would likely take it as a sign of literal demonic possession. 

_I’d bet I could fix that with makeup,_ he thinks to himself. 

Spencer promptly turns away from the mirror. “It’s too early,” he mutters. “I have no control of my brain yet.”

* * *

  
As soon as he enters the unit, before he’s even had a chance to set his bag down or go say hello to Penelope, Spencer runs face-first into Morgan—the _last_ person he wants to see today—who is carrying an uncovered mug of incredibly hot coffee. 

The coffee spills down Spencer’s front (probably giving him irreparable third degree burns— _Jesus_ , it hurts) and sloshes over Morgan’s fist. Morgan drops the mug, clearly startled by the pain, and it shatters into a million tiny pieces that fly far and wide across the floor.

(“What was that?” Hotch demands from beyond the open door of his office.)

(“Routine wear and tear,” Emily calls back.)

“Shit!” Morgan hisses, kneeling down to begin picking up large chunks of _broken ceramic_ with his bare hands. (Spencer is tempted to snap at him to stop. _You’re going to cut your hands_ , he almost says, then remembers that it’s not his problem.) “Sorry, Reid. Didn’t see you there. You all good?”

Spencer holds the front of his sweater (now _saturated_ with scalding hot liquid) as far away from his chest as he can. “No. I’m —no. What the hell, man? Can’t you be a little more careful?”

“It was just an accident. Chill out.”

“You—you spilled that _all over my shirt_.” (Honestly, it was just as much Spencer’s fault, but he’s feeling exceptionally pissed off and sleepy today, and he can’t help but flare up. He hears something of Diana in his own voice when it pitches up with emotion like this, and he isn’t quite sure what to make of that.) 

“My bad, man. I think I have an extra t-shirt in my car, if you want?”

And Spencer really, _really_ does _not_ “want”, but his sweater is stained all down the front and completely soaked, so he doesn’t have a choice ( _does he? He doesn’t, right?)_ , and he winds up wearing Derek’s too-big t-shirt (which hangs off of his twiglike frame like a potato sack) for the remainder of the day. 

As embarrassing as the whole ordeal is (Hotch tells Spencer he looks like Jack when he plays dress-up with his clothes, and the girls get a good laugh out of that), Spencer is comforted by the feel of the soft, loose cotton fabric against his arms and by the gentle, distinctly-Morgan musk that comes with it.

Spencer works silently on his case files for the rest of the morning as if nothing had happened, sitting criss-cross-applesauce in his desk chair and chewing on the end of his ballpoint pen (both of which are things Hotch has repeatedly asked him not to do, but he just can’t help himself when he gets into his zone). 

Every now and then, he can almost swear he sees Morgan’s eyes lingering on him from where the older man sits a few feet away, but when Spencer looks up to meet his gaze, he seems just as occupied by paperwork as Spencer is. 

* * *

Spencer _hates_ grocery shopping.

The fluorescent overhead lights always make his eyes hurt, and he doesn’t like all the buzzing and humming of other people’s unoiled cart wheels and murmured conversations. He doesn’t like touching things that hundreds of people have touched in the past 24 hours and then bringing them home to eat. He doesn’t like having to look at everyone and smile and pretend he hasn’t just spent the day poring over dead bodies and criminal psychosis and sentences to life without possibility of parole. He doesn’t like how cold it is, and how alone he always feels as he shops for himself and himself alone.

As he walks through the frozens aisle, Spencer carries his plastic shopping basket on one arm and wraps the other around his abdomen. 

He hopes that, to an outside observer, he looks as though he’s nursing a stomach ache rather than gently rubbing the fabric of Morgan’s T-shirt (which he hasn’t taken off, even after being at home for four hours) between his index finger and thumb. (Of course, no one here would know who Derek is, or why Spencer shouldn’t be wearing his shirt and gently caressing the seam for comfort, but hiding these sorts of things is second nature to Spencer at this point.) Even such a gentle, abstract reminder of Morgan’s existence calms Spencer down. The shirt still smells vaguely of him—a combination of laundry detergent, cologne, and gunpowder.

It makes him feel safe.

(Morgan always makes him feel safe.)

The cosmetics aisle is right beside the frozens, and Spencer is spat out in front of a vast display of nail polish as soon as he’s grabbed his frozen strawberries.

The products down _this_ aisle, unlike almost everything else in the store, have their own special lights casting down on them, giving Spencer the impression that he’s been guided toward these nail polishes by some sort of ethereal light. 

A few feet away, a warmer, brighter light shines on a shelf of powder blush. It’s just out of reach.

Spencer can hear Penelope’s drunken giggle again:

_We think you should try makeup._

_Just something light._

_Blush, maybe._

(She’d mentioned blush specifically, hadn’t she?)

**_We_ ** _think you should—_

**_We—_**

_**Derek and I** talk about it all the time. _

With extreme caution and painful slowness, as though he were approaching an armed subject, Spencer walks towards the blush.

_You could pull it off,_ Penelope had said.

_We’ll see,_ Spencer thinks.

There’s a middle-aged woman and a pre-teen girl standing a few feet away, combing through the eyeshadow display, but they don’t look in Spencer’s direction at all, let alone long enough that he feels he has to come up with an excuse for buying makeup. 

The bright, buttery display lights make the silver decals on the plastic tins of compact pink powder glitter magnificently. It’s beautiful, really, in an artificial, corporate sort of way.

_Derek and I talk about it all the time_.

Spencer runs his fingers once more over the seam of Derek’s shirt, then reaches up to snatch one of the small tins off of the shelf. 

Heart pounding as though he’s just done something wrong ( _has he? Is this wrong?_ ), Spencer hurriedly leaves the cosmetics aisle before he can make a spectacle of himself.

As he leaves the store, he buttons his cardigan over Derek’s shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks a million for reading!  
> hit me up at reidtheroom.tumblr.com and we can be friends :)


	2. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murder, self-doubt, lip gloss, etc.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! 
> 
> Thanks so much for all the love on the first chapter. I'm having so much fun writing this one, and I hope you'll enjoy the second chapter as much as the first :)
> 
> Also I want to introduce you guys to my Beta reader, user @ rxseinbloom !!

When Spencer returns from his fateful trip to the grocery store, he slams his front door shut and locks it like a teenager returning home from a friend’s house with a porn magazine.

His heart beats unreasonably fast.

_Forbidden fruit._

Once his groceries are away and he’s confident that he’s not somehow accidentally recording or broadcasting himself ( _being raised by a paranoid has taken its toll_ , he thinks), Spencer ties his hair back and sits on his bedroom floor in front of his full-length mirror. Not for the first time, he cringes at the sight of his reflection. 

_Maybe,_ he thinks, _maybe next time, I can buy some of that skin-toned makeup, for underneath my eyes._

Spencer uses his shaking fingers to apply the baby-pink powder to the rises of his cheeks and the tip of his nose, just the way he’s seen Penelope do in the breakroom at work.

Once he’s satisfied with the amount of powder laid upon his cheeks (though he has no idea what amount is a proper amount, really) Spencer sets the canister down and stares at his reflection. 

He’s shocked.

The blush seems to have brought him back to life; the grayish, sickly tone of his skin that he’s always disliked so much has been tamed beneath the powder. 

He raises a hand to his face.

He looks _youthful_. No, more than just _youthful_ \- he looks like a young woman in a Renoir painting. He’s doe-eyed and flushed. He looks sweet. _Innocent._

Spencer smiles. “I like it,” he mumbles, grazing his powder-coated fingertips against his cheekbone. “I _really_ like it.”

* * *

Spencer spends the next three hours poring over his old leather journals, trying to make sense of a few cold cases that he and Penelope have dug up from the pits of the Bureau’s system. (They’re not supposed to have access to these things, but they reason that no one is bold enough to punish them for trying to solve cases, right?)

As usual, though, the scouring returns nothing, and Spencer is about to get ready for bed when the landline phone on his kitchen counter rings.

He answers reluctantly. 

_You can talk to me_ , he thinks to himself, _but I’m not gonna like it._

“Hello?”

“Spence? Hey, it’s JJ. I’m sorry to do this, but we need you at the office.” 

Spencer bites back a groan. He glances over at the old, dusty plastic clock ticking merrily away on the wall opposite him. 

_2:17._

“Why? What’s going on?” 

“Triple homicide in Missouri.”

“Could this wait just a few hours, maybe? It’s late, and—and I’m sure everyone is too tired to do their best work.” 

“No. No, the unsub has hostages, Spence. He’s completely unstable. Hotch wants to try to get down there ASAP.” 

Spencer sighs. “Okay, fine.” 

The memory of dropping JJ off at her apartment on Friday night suddenly flitters to the front of his mind. 

She’d held out her arms to hug him ( _pink sweater, ponytail, silver hoop earrings)_ , and he’d told her to go inside. She hadn’t done anything _wrong_ —he was ( _is_ ) just being petulant and selfish. 

Guilt runs cold through Spencer like a gush of IV fluid.

“…JJ, I’m sorry.” 

“What?”

“I’m sorry I’ve…I’m not very nice to you, and you’re always nice to me. Doesn’t seem fair.” 

“Is something wrong?”

 _Yes._ “No. Just—you called me, and I was angry right away. That’s hardly fair.” 

JJ laughs a good-natured (but obviously artificial) laugh. “Oh, come on. That was nothing. You should hear the shit Emily says to me when I wake her up.” 

Spencer smiles. “Pass. She’s scary. I’ll see you soon.”

“See you, Spence.” 

* * *

It’s ridiculously late, and it’s been _hours_ since any reasonable amount of caffeine has entered his system, so it’s not inexcusable that Spencer forgets that he hadn’t washed the makeup off.

In fact, he forgets ( _not forgets, he never forgets, but he pushes the fact aside_ ) that he had put it on at _all_ until he catches his reflection in a mirror on his way up to the office.

There he is, smack-dab in the middle of the Federal Bureau of Investigation with his face _coated_ in the powder. 

He has to _work_ like this. 

Spencer has to present himself to his teammates and the local police department and possibly the _unsub himself_ with _makeup on_. 

_Fuck._

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

He bites down on his lip hard enough that he draws blood.

 _Fuck_.

 _Of course_ , he assures himself, _it isn’t a lot of makeup_. 

He’s sure that no one besides the team (who all know what he normally looks like - pale and sickly) will be able to tell the difference, but that uncomfortable fact alone is enough to make his stomach ache.

The team is going to know. 

They’re going to find out about this, and at least a few of them will understand _why._

* * *

The first person Spencer comes across when he enters the unit is JJ.

“Hey, Sp - aw.” She smiles and gestures at his face. “Cute. I like it.”

Spencer swallows. “You do?”

JJ is clearly very scattered, but she doesn’t seem insincere. “Sure! It suits you. Hey, I need you to just go ahead and bring your go-bag straight to the loading dock, okay? We’re briefing on the plane, the situation is very unstable.” She squeezes Spencer’s shoulder and power-walks over to the staircase (Hotch had banned running on the floor following an incident with Morgan and Prentiss and microwave popcorn), calling out for Rossi.

 _She likes it,_ Spencer muses.

Spencer tries his best to avoid Morgan, but their desks are just a few feet apart, and he runs into him (not literally this time, thank God) as he’s packing his books.

Morgan claps Spencer amicably on the shoulder as he makes his way over to his desk, and Spencer ducks away from him, turning his face to try to conceal his cheeks. He doesn’t want to have this sort of conversation with no one else around; he’s not sure what he thinks will happen, but he’d been caught in enough moments of vulnerability growing up that he knows it’s never a good thing to be cornered. 

“Woah,” Morgan says. “What’s with you? You okay?”

Spencer nods and tries not to let himself hyperventilate. “Sure. Just - feeling a little off.”

Morgan places a hand on Spencer’s shoulder and gently tugs him in his direction. “Hey. Look at me.”

Begrudgingly (because this is only going to be _more_ uncomfortable if he’s acting weird), Spencer turns to face him.

Morgan squints as if he’s studying Spencer’s face. “Are you wearing _makeup_?” 

Spencer tries to swallow his humiliation. “A little,” he admits. 

His heart races. 

_Bad idea._

_Bad idea._

_Should’ve said no._

_Stupid, stupid boy._ “I thought I was getting sick, and I just—wanted to look healthier. Less…pale…?”

“So you went out and bought makeup,” Morgan deadpans. 

“Yes.”

His colleague smirks, and Spencer _swears_ he would smack him right across the face if he weren’t so breathtakingly, overwhelmingly strong. “Okay. Whatever you say, pretty boy.” 

Spencer crosses his arms. He swallows the lump in his throat and steps towards Morgan in an attempt to be imposing. “ _Why_ do you always call me that? You know, ever since I met you, you—you’re always—has it ever occurred to you that I might not like you _making fun of me_ all the time? At _work_? That you might be embarrassing me? Not everyone can have as—as much—” What was it JJ had said on Friday night? “— _masculine charm_ as you. So what? That doesn’t mean I want you _insulting_ me all the time. And maybe—”

“It’s not an insult,” Morgan interrupts, stepping even _closer,_ which is _definitely_ imposing.

Spencer freezes. “ _What?_ ” 

“It’s not an _insult_ , Reid,” Morgan spits, inches from Spencer’s face. “I never said it was. You filled in that blank yourself, kid. You always think the worst of me. Maybe this is a you-problem.” 

Before Spencer can formulate a response, Derek has turned on his heels and begun walking across the pen towards the briefing room. 

_If it’s not an insult, what is it?_

* * *

They run through the case on the jet.

The UnSub is –from what their scouts stationed outside the building can tell–a white man in his early 30’s ( _“Big surprise,” Emily scoffs_ ) who Garcia determines from security footage to stand at about 5 feet and 11 inches.

“Victimology?” Derek asks.

He’s deliberately avoiding Spencer’s eyes, keeping his gaze trained on Emily, who sits just a few feet to Spencer’s left. 

_Stupid._

_Stupid, of course he doesn’t like it._

_He doesn’t like you._

_Stupid._

_Do you have any idea how ridiculous you look?_

“Unknown,” JJ says. She hands each of them a folder. “These are photos of his previous victims - Rebecca McCarthy, twenty-one, Eiliana Sanders, twenty-one, Josie Cook, nineteen. All young, white females enrolled at the local university, but we don’t have much information on them otherwise, and our field office hasn’t had a chance to talk to the families.”

Hotch nods. “Can you get Garcia started-” 

“I’m started,” Penelope interrupts from the computer screen. Even in low-resolution, she looks exhausted. ( _No makeup_ , Spencer realizes, and brushes his fingers over his cheek.) “Looks like Eliana was a real stand-up kid. Born in Des Plaines, Illinois, president of her sorority, engaged to a... _Jayden Arbuckle_ , tons of community service - oh, guys, this is so sad.” 

“What can you tell me about Josie, baby girl?” 

“She’s the only one who isn’t a redhead,” Emily mutters, to which Derek nods.

“I don’t have much on her yet. Looks like she was kind of a loner, never met her dad. God, these poor girls.”

“Thank you, Garcia,” Hotch says. “Can you fax us the information?”

“Absolutely,” she says, and disappears as soon as she’d come.

Spencer wants to call her back.

He wants to ask her whether she’d lied to him on Friday, or if she was joking, or, worst of all, if she was mocking him. 

No, that’s not it - Penelope wouldn’t mock him. She’s about as mean-spirited as a puppy. 

Penelope wouldn’t do something like that.

_Derek might._

* * *

Their UnSub is a violent misogynist by the name of _Noah Williams_. 

His victims had been studying to become doctors, and he hadn’t liked that.

It was Spencer who had finally made the connection - _what do a biology major, a human anatomy major, and a neuroscience major have in common_? He’d spent enough time in and around universities to know what a pre-med track looks like. 

As usual, everything falls into place following Spencer’s missing piece. (This is one thing he truly feels he has to be _proud of—_ he’s always been good at connecting the dots.) Williams hadn’t been admitted to medical school despite a nearly perfect application, and he felt he’d had the opportunity to become a doctor stolen from him by his female peers, who, he reasoned, had no place in the field.

(“ _Jesus_ , why not just go to graduate school?” Emily muttered.)

(“It costs an arm and a leg,” Spencer told her. “Trust me.”)

“Noah Williams is a narcissist who places all of his self-worth in his intellect,” Hotch tells them. “Nothing is more important to him than being the smartest person in any given room, and he becomes furious and unstable when this vision he has of himself is disrupted.”

Spencer swallows.

“I think we should send Reid in to try to talk him down.” Hotch turns to look Spencer in the eyes. “If that’s alright with you.”

* * *

Spencer agrees, of course.

Nothing makes him feel more whole than de-escalation. 

He doesn’t care for violence. He never has. It’s something he shares with Penelope - they both agree that anyone can shoot a gun, but it takes something special to handle a dangerous situation by removing the danger rather than escalating.

Spencer never feels more proud than when _everyone_ walks away from a BAU crime scene alive and unscathed.

“Do _not_ take this off,” Hotch orders, handing Spencer a vest. “ _No matter what._ I _mean it_ this time. That is an order from your commander, Reid. Am I understood?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Spencer tugs his vest on, and Morgan moves up behind him. 

“Let me help you with these straps,” he mutters, reaching around Spencer’s sides. “You’re gonna want them nice and tight. Can’t have our only boy wonder getting his shit rocked.” 

“I don’t need help,” Spencer protests halfheartedly, but finds himself almost relaxing into the half-embrace.

Derek smells the same way his shirt had the previous night - like pine trees, gun powder, and safety. 

* * *

They send Spencer into the building unarmed and with a wire on. 

They have snipers and SWAT agents at the ready, apparently, but Spencer is fiercely determined that it won’t come to that, and he tells the team as much.

“ _He knows you’re coming_ ,” Hotchner says in Spencer’s right ear as he makes his way towards the building. “ _He’s got an AR-15 and a pocket knife, but no other weapons that we could tell. We’ve got your back. We’re ready at a moment’s notice. Good luck, Reid_.”

“ _Remember_ ,” Rossi says a second later, “ _the_ _guy’s a classic narcissist. You need to make this about him. Tell him that we’re on his side, and we’re gonna give him what he deserves_.”

“Got it,” Spencer whispers.

He opens the door to the abandoned Auto Zone where the hostages are being held and walks in tentatively with his hands up. Spencer always feels like a lamb to the slaughter when he does this, but he doesn’t entirely dislike it. He enjoys going into a tense situation with no weapons and coming out the victor regardless.

Just as Spencer had expected, Williams immediately points his rifle at his chest. “You with the FBI?” He demands.

Spencer does some quick, on-the-ground profiling. 

They’d told Williams that he should be expecting an FBI agent at three. 

It is currently three, and Spencer has just walked into the building wearing a vest with ‘ ** _FBI_** ’ printed on the front in big, bold letters.

Clearly, Williams is not as sharp as he believes himself to be.

“Yes,” Spencer says. “And I’m unarmed.” He displays his palms for emphasis. “I have nothing with me. I just want to talk to you, Noah.”

Williams thrusts his weapon in Spencer’s direction, and one of the girls in the corner sobs. (Spencer gives her his best reassuring smile. _I’m gonna get you out of here_ , he thinks as loudly as he can, just in case she might hear.) “You trust me? Is that why you’re unarmed?”

 _Classic narcissist_ , Spencer remembers. “Of course I trust you. I admire you, actually, and—and I admire what you’re doing to clean up the modern medical field.”

“If you trust me,” William snaps. “Why’ve you still got your gear on?”

“ _Don’t do it, Reid,_ ” Hotch snaps through the earpiece.

“It’s just protocol,” Spencer assures him. 

Williams shakes his head. “Nah. I’m not talking to someone who doesn’t trust me. You can take that shit off or you can get out of here.”

“ _Reid,_ ” Hotch mutters. “ _Get him over to the window. That’s an order. We can get a shot if you’ve got him over there_.” 

“I’ll take it off,” Spencer says, “if you can promise me that I can trust you, as well.”

“ _This man is a narcissist, Reid. You can’t trust him to follow through on this_ ”

Williams gives Spencer a slow once-over before nodding. “Yeah. Okay. Sure. You can trust me.” 

“Okay,” Spencer says, holding up his hands once more for good measure. “I’m just reaching down to loosen the straps, alright?”

 _Jesus,_ they’re tight. 

_Morgan wasn’t fucking around_.

Spencer takes his eyes off of Williams for just a moment to remove the vest, and when he looks back up, he’s standing about a foot from his face with his weapon raised. 

_Fuck._

_Sorry, Hotch. You were right._

“Hey,” Spencer says, his heart rate picking up.

_They don’t have a shot._

_They don’t have a shot. He’s going to kill me._

_I’m going to die here._

_I’m going to die in an Auto-Zone._

“Hey, N-Noah? Why don’t you—” Spencer swallows, “why don’t you take a step back, huh? And we can just—” 

Williams swings his rifle.

Spencer’s entire field of vision becomes clouded by a burst of blood-red pain, and he collapses like a rag doll onto the floor. 

He doesn’t even feel the impact.

For a moment, he’s unsure what’s happened, and he’s left staring at the blurry outline of a human hand a few inches from his face. It’s just a second after he recognizes the hand as his own that he’s consumed by blackness.

There’s nothing, and then there’s shouting.

A single gunshot.

Arms around him, holding his head upright, lifting him off of the cold, concrete floor of the Auto-zone and pulling him into a warm embrace, as though he weighs nothing at all.

Spencer curls into his savior and rests his head against their heartbeat.

_Soft, cotton fabric._

_Pinecones, gun-powder, leather, safety -_

_Derek._

* * *

Spencer wakes up in the hospital.

At first, all he can see is clean, pure, fluorescent _white_ in all directions.

Two years ago, when Spencer was new to waking up in hospitals, he’d mistaken this sight for heaven.

Now, though, he’s seasoned enough that he recognizes it as a hospital ceiling. 

_I’m alive_.

Gingerly, he hoists himself to seating and examines the room.

He’s surrounded by the rest of his team.

Far more surprisingly, he’s unable to feel the right side of his face. 

“What _happened_?” He croaks, raising his hand to his temple. His mouth feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton. 

“You just had to get some stitches,” Morgan says, soft and tender. He sounds almost _sad._ “You were bleeding pretty bad. Williams pistol-whipped you with that big fuckin’ gun. Broke your...face...head vein.” 

Spencer frowns. “The superficial temporal vein?” 

Morgan nods. “Yeah. That one. How’re you feeling?”

He can’t think about himself just yet. “Is—”

“The subject was...handled,” Emily supplies. 

_She gets it._

Spencer relaxes. “And the...hostages?”

Prentiss nods. “Fine. I mean—shaken up, but...they’ll be alright. It all went just fine.”

_And I was no help at all._

_Out for most of it._

“And you, Reid?” Rossi asks from where he stands in the corner. “How are you feeling?”

Spencer swallows and glances around the room at his friends. There’s an unusual tension about, but he can’t quite put a finger on where it’s coming from or where it’s directed. Hotch looks angry, but Hotch almost _always_ looks angry, so Spencer isn’t quite sure whether he’s the cause of this anger or not. 

“I’m mostly feeling sorry that I jeopardized the mission,” Spencer half-whispers. “I...I failed you, I failed to de-escalate, and I’m sorry.” 

He bites his lip, stares at his blanket, and waits anxiously to hear whether this was the correct answer.

“You didn’t jeopardize the mission, Reid,” Hotch assures him, side-eyeing Morgan. “De-escalation can be unpredictable. You can’t blame yourself for that.” 

Spencer breathes a sigh of relief.

“ _However_ ,” Hotch continues. _Shit._ “Next time you remove your vest in a hostage situation, I’m suspending you until you understand how to follow orders. If he had decided to do more than just hit you, which he _easily_ could have, you wouldn’t be sitting here right now. You put your life on the line for an unrealistic ideal, and it’s a miracle that you didn’t pay the ultimate price. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Rossi interrupts the inexplicably tense, awkward silence a few moments later. “Well, Reid, you should be out of here in a few hours. Do you mind if we head back to the hotel and pack up? We can gather your things.”

Spencer shakes his head. “Not at all, sir. I appreciate that.”

“And why don’t _you_ —” Rossi claps Derek on the shoulder— “stay here, and...make sure things run smoothly.”

Hotch nods. “I think that’s in order.” 

JJ stares at the floor.

Spencer starts to panic.

_What’s going on?_

_What is this?_

Hotch ushers everyone out of the room. 

Spencer’s palms begin to sweat.

_What is this?_

Emily squeezes Derek’s shoulder on her way out and whispers something to him that Spencer can’t make out. 

_What happened?_

When the room has been vacated save for the two of them, Derek sits down in the chair next to Spencer’s bed. 

“Hey,” he starts. 

“Hey,” Spencer mumbles, picking at a loose thread on his blanket. His heartbeat is so aggressive that he can see it through his hospital robe. 

“I...got you a present.” 

Derek reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a small tube of _something_. 

Spencer frowns. “What is that?”

“It’s...uh, watermelon strawberry? Is what it says.” 

_Lip gloss._

Spencer faces the window so that Derek won’t see his eyes well up with tears. “ _Why_ would you do that? It’s not funny, man. I just wanted to look nice for once.” His voice is so defeated and soft that he can’t help but feel sorry for himself. 

Morgan grabs his hand. 

Spencer is about to yank it away, but he finds that he doesn’t want to. 

“Look, Reid. Look at me.” 

Reluctantly, Spencer looks at him. He’s surprised to find that there’s nothing but sincerity in his face. 

“I _told_ you,” Derek insists. “We talked about this last night, kid. You always think I have the _worst_ intentions. You got me all wrong, man. I don’t wanna hurt you. Physically, or...I would _never_ hurt you. I got this for you because I thought you would like it. I swear on my pops. That’s it. I thought you would like it, and I thought it’d look nice on you.” 

_He thought I would like it and_ **_what?_**

_What?_

Spencer looks down to the tube of lip gloss, then to where Morgan is grasping his hand. “You...thought it would look _nice_ on me?” 

“Yeah. If you don’t want it, I can—”

Spencer plucks it from his palm and holds it close to his chest. ( _His heart_.) “No. I love it. Really. Thank you.”

They sit in silence for a moment more, Spencer’s palm slowly growing sweaty beneath Derek’s fingertips. 

“I realized something today,” Derek says after a few beats.

Spencer’s stomach turns over. “What’s that?”

“You’re...important to me, okay? Don’t forget that.”

For the first time in weeks, Spencer smiles a real, toothy smile as he looks down at his sweaty palm and gently rotates his tube of strawberry-watermelon lip gloss between his fingers. “And you’re important to me,” he promises. “… Morgan?”

“What is it, pretty boy?”

 _If it’s not an insult_ , Spencer realizes, _he must mean it._ “What happened today? I don’t remember anything after I got hit.” 

(It’s not _quite_ the truth, but Derek doesn’t need to know that. He doesn’t need to know that Spencer remembers burying his face in Derek’s shoulder and indulging, briefly, in the same comforting scent he’d had with him when he’d embarked on his cosmetics adventure back in Quantico. He doesn’t need to know just how strongly Spencer has come to associate him with safety and home.) 

Derek sits back in his chair and gently lifts his hand from Spencer’s. “Well,” he says. “I heard you take off your vest. I heard that...uh...it was heating up. I heard you ask him not to get close, and then I heard you scream and hit the ground.”

“And then what?” 

He shrugs. 

“ _Morgan_?” Spencer prompts.

“You _scared_ me, kid. I kicked the door in and shot the guy in the chest before he knew what happened. I picked you up and carried you outside. 

… But, uh, all’s well that ends well, right? Here we are, all set to head home.”

Spencer stares at him, his eyes the size of quarters. “Oh my god. Oh, my god, _no_. That’s—that’s _completely_ _insane_! _Why_ would you do something like that? That’s—that’s _so_ reckless—”

“Look, don’t Hotch me, alright? I got enough of that on the way over here. He wrote me up.”

“I’m _shocked_ you got away with a write-up.” 

Derek shrugs. “I’m irreplaceable.”

“Can you just be serious _,_ please? For _once_? You could’ve died.”

The “ _for me”_ is unsaid.

_You could have died for me._

_Because of me._

_For me._

_Why me?_

“Okay.” Derek presses his forearms into his knees and looks Spencer in the eyes. “I don’t do things like that, Reid. Not usually. I know I can be a little—”

“Stupid?” Spencer interrupts. 

“Sure. But, today, I wasn’t thinking about anything but you. Not at all. All I could think was that you might be hurt, or - _dying_ , even, and that was enough to...you know. And that’s how I know that...you’re...important to me, okay? You mean a lot to me.” 

_Me._

_Why me?_

Just as Spencer is about to open his mouth to speak, JJ sticks her head into the room. (It’s a lifesaver, really. Spencer doesn’t know what to say to something like that.) “Knock knock,” she says, holding up her phone. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything. I’ve got someone on the line for you, Spence.”

“I thought you guys _left_?” Derek hisses as JJ hands Spencer the phone. 

“Rossi made me and Emily stay in the lobby,” she whispers back. “He wanted to talk to Hotch alone.”

Spencer presses the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Oh, my _baby_!” Penelope cries on the other end. “Oh, thank _god_. I swear, I called as _soon_ as Agent Rossi gave me the OK.”

For the second time that day, Spencer grins. “I don’t doubt it at all, Garcia.” 

* * *

They get back to Quantico just before the sun sets, and Hotch sends them all home early.

“Get some decent sleep,” he says. “Relax a little. But I still need you all to be here at nine-o’clock sharp tomorrow, so don’t relax too much.” 

Derek catches Spencer by the elbow in the parking lot. 

“Hey,” he says. “You don’t drive, do you?”

Spencer shakes his head. “Not usually. I was just gonna take the metro.”

Derek shifts uncomfortably. Spencer’s never seen him like this, and he doesn’t know how to feel about it. He’s usually so smooth and collected. It seems unnatural. “I could drive you home?” He says, presenting the matter as a question.

_For me._

_Me._

_Why me?_

“Oh. Um, no, thanks. It’s fine.”

Glancing across the horizon, Derek drops Spencer’s elbow and nods. “Okay. But…listen, Spencer?”

_First name._

_First name, what does that mean?_

“Yeah?”

“I meant what I said. You’re...important to me. I want to - _talk_ about today. And - you don’t have to, alright? But if you decide you want to talk, go ahead and call me, okay? Any time.”

Spencer smiles. “Okay. I’ll...I’ll give you a call. See you around.”

Once he’s turned and started walking towards his car, off into the sunset like some sort of ridiculous coming-of-age movie, Spencer calls out to him.

“Hey, Derek?” ( _First name. What does that mean?_ )

He turns back around. “Yeah?”

“I just...thank you.”

Derek grins, and Spencer swears he can feel it in his chest. “Any time, pretty boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANKS FOR READING!! 
> 
> As always, feedback means so much to me!! I appreciate hearing anything that might've been on your mind :)
> 
> See you all next week, I hope!


	3. Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confrontation and bureaucracy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY GUYS! Sorry I've taken so long to update this! Last Friday, I was working on something else (which you can check out in my post history), but I swear I'll be back to weekly updates from now on :) as always, I hope you enjoy, and I hope that you'll leave a comment if you do, because it always makes my day!

Usually, their Brunch Day is Friday. 

On Fridays, they have an excuse to indulge, because Friday always brings something to celebrate. Brunch Day is a celebratory occasion; sometimes, they can celebrate a major success (some Really Bad Dude they’ve managed to take down, or a stack of paperwork as tall as JJ that they’ve finally managed to clear), but sometimes, Brunch Day is just a celebration of having gotten through another week. (In such a difficult job, _getting through_ is something worth celebrating, and sometimes, there’s no better or more appropriate celebration than pancakes.)

Today, however, is only _Wednesday_ , and they haven’t got a whole lot to celebrate (just a write-up and a botched mission), so Penelope knows that something is up as soon as Derek calls her to suggest they have Brunch Day early this week. 

“I just miss talking to you,” he insists. “What, is that a crime?”

She hums on the other end. “No. It’s not that I don’t _understand_ why you would miss me after, I dunno, 12 hours, it’s just that you usually _don’t_. So what gives?” 

Derek sighs. “Look. I need some advice. You in, or not?”

“Only if you’re buying.” 

“Deal.” 

* * *

  
  


Penelope buys rainbow sprinkle pancakes with whipped cream.

Wednesdays are not cheat days, so Derek opts for some kind of disgusting spinach protein smoothie and steals forkfuls of rainbow pancake off of Penelope’s plate.

“So. What did you say you told him?” Penelope asks. She stabs her pancake aggressively with her fork. She’s got that scrunched-up look about her that she always does when she’s trying not to laugh. “Say it again.” 

“I _said_ ,” Derek sighs. “ _You’re important to me_.”

“Important to you,” she deadpans. “Cute. I love that.”

Penelope is the only one he’s ever told about his fondness for Spencer, and he’d previously planned to keep it that way until Hell froze over. 

It’s been quite some time now—months, a _year_ , even—that he’s been painfully swallowing all of this and keeping it hidden with every bit of energy he could muster. Until yesterday, he’d had himself convinced that the situation would resolve itself organically without him having to address it. This is his preferred coping mechanism, and has been since he was thirteen; if he pretends it isn’t real, it won’t be. If he doesn’t speak it into existence, it never happened at all. If a tree falls in the woods and no one is around to hear it, it had never fallen. 

The problem is not that it hadn’t worked (it’s a foolproof method, really), but that he’d given it up. He’d laid all of his defenses down on the floor of that abandoned Auto-Zone. _This—_ this complicated, inappropriate relationship with his young coworker—is no longer one-sided. It’s concrete and inescapable. He’s gone and made it real, and he’s drug Spencer into its dirty wake. 

“ _Hey_ ,” he protests. “That was true. He _is_ important to me. That’s what I wanted him to hear.” 

“Well, shit, Derek!” Penelope exclaims. “Reid is pretty important to me, too. Nothing wrong with letting him know that. If that’s all this is, then I guess I don’t need to be here, huh?” 

She grabs her purse and stands as though she’s going to walk out of the restaurant. 

Derek rolls his eyes and points at her seat. _So dramatic._ “Uh uh. No, because I’m your ride to work, so you’re not leaving until I decide you’re leaving. Sit your ass down.” 

Penelope grins. She sets her bag down and sits, propping her face in her palm in an animated impression of a lovesick schoolgirl. “Aw. You know I get all tingly when you take control like that, babe.” 

Derek smiles. _In another life_ , he thinks absently. “That’s my girl. Anyway, I didn’t want to freak the poor kid out, you know? He hates being put on the spot.”

“Mmm. Okay, sure.” Penelope waggles her eyebrows at him and sticks her fork in her mouth.

“Don’t look at—what is it? Why are you lookin’ at me like that?” 

Penelope shrugs. “Did you not want to put him on the spot, or were you scared of what he was gonna say, and you’re thinking it’d be easier to deal with potential rejection if you weren’t looking right at him?” 

“Are you _profiling_ me right now?” Derek demands. 

“Oh, no. I’m just being _wise,_ sweetheart. There’s a difference. Hey, can I get another mimosa?” 

“I don’t care. Hotch might.” 

Penelope sighs. “You’re right. Okay, so you said, _you’re important to me_ , and you told him to call you if he wanted to talk about what happened. And…?” 

“And he didn’t.” Derek swallows and looks down at his hands. He hadn’t wanted to consider this, but now that he’s gone and made it all _real_ , he has to confront the overwhelming possibility that it isn’t going to shake out the way it had when he’d occasionally allowed himself to fantasize. “Maybe I should just drop it, huh?” 

“Oh, honey.” Penelope reaches across the table and squeezes his hand. “No. You probably…confused him, that’s all. You were being uber-weird. ‘Here’s a drug store lip gloss, call me if you want to talk about how you’re important to me?’ That’s _weird_ , Derek. Where’s that legendary pickup game, huh?”

“I don’t _know_. This is different.” 

“Why don’t you just ask him to dinner like a normal person? That’d probably get your message across.”

Derek shakes his head. “He’s not just a _normal person_. He’s…”

“Important to you?” Penelope finishes. 

Derek doesn’t particularly appreciate her teasing smile, but he feels that it’s exactly what he deserves. “You’re never gonna let me live that down, are you?” 

“Not a chance, doll.” 

They listen to Spice Girls on the way to work.

Penelope knows all the words, and Derek knows most of them, and they shout them loud enough that Derek is fairly sure the people beside them in traffic can hear them even with the windows shut. This sort of music always reminds Derek of his sisters, and it wraps around him and soothes him like a blanket. 

The sweet nostalgia is almost enough to subdue the childish, melodramatic dread he begins to feel as they draw closer to Quantico, but not quite.

_Not quite._

* * *

Once they arrive on the unit, JJ, who is standing on the upper level with her Blackberry in her hand, asks Penelope if she wants to see a cute picture of Henry that Will just texted her. Penelope, of course, says yes (and practically _sprints_ up the steps), leaving Derek in the pen, alone but for a few interns.

There’s a brief moment of panic. 

_What now?_

Derek can’t very well _avoid_ Spencer all day, because for one thing, he’s an _adult_ , and that’s not what grown men do, and for another, their desks are side-by-side. He can’t just pretend that Spencer isn’t there, can he?

 _Fifteen minutes until they’re supposed to be at their desks._

What is Derek going to say when Reid approaches him? Should he just say _good morning_ and act like nothing had happened yesterday? Should he wait for Spencer to break the silence? Should he say something aggressively platonic to let Spencer know that yesterday afternoon was a fluke, and he regrets it? 

**_Does_ ** _he regret it_?

It’s then that he glances to his left and sees Reid through the window of the break room. 

He’s standing next to the coffee machine with one hand on the counter, staring straight ahead with an ever-so-slightly perturbed pout, as though he’s deep in thought about something mildly unpleasant. It may be wishful thinking, but he’s wearing that blush again, and Derek can’t help but notice that his lips look slightly glossy.

Derek’s not sure if it’s a conscious decision that he makes in a split second, if he’s just incapable of thinking before 9:00 AM, or if there’s some sort of higher power compelling him to Reid’s side, but he finds himself making his way to the break room without further evaluating the situation.

As soon as he opens the door, he feels he’s made a mistake, because Reid doesn’t look up at him, and he hasn’t planned any snippy entry lines to get the ball rolling.

 _Back at square one._

Maybe he was wrong—maybe grown men _do_ ignore each other as a means of dealing with romantic blunders.

He grabs a mug off the shelf attached to the wall (he’d definitely had enough coffee at breakfast, but he can’t very well just _stand there_ ) and stands deliberately in what _would_ be Reid’s direct line of vision, if he weren’t staring at the carpet. “Good morning,” he offers.

(Upon closer inspection, Spencer is definitely wearing the lip gloss. The light catches his lips _just so_ as he pours a packet of Sweet N’ Low into his mug, and they _blatantly_ sparkle.) 

“I’m sorry I didn’t call you last night,” Reid blurts. 

“That’s okay, kid.”

It’s not okay, honestly—Derek _desperately_ wants to talk to Reid alone. Now that he’s aired out all of this dirty laundry that was never supposed to see the light of day, the only thing he wants is to shove it back into a box (whatever form that box that may take) and wrap it up with a neat little bow. (Derek has always hated uncertainty.)

Reid looks him in the eyes. “Really. I’m…I’m _really_ sorry. I wanted to, I just… didn’t know what to say.” He averts his eyes, swallows hard, and goes back to stirring his coffee. “Sorry.” 

_Penelope was right_ , Derek realizes, his heart nearly skipping a beat. “It’s okay.” 

_Why can’t you just ask him to dinner like a normal person?_

In the grand scheme of things, Penelope is right far more often than she’s wrong. 

Derek takes a deep breath. “If you still wanna talk, you know, about any of this, I’d love to take you to dinner sometime.”

Reid furrows his brow and looks up. (It’s rare to catch Spencer in a moment of genuine confusion, and Derek had almost forgotten how adorable he looks with his head slightly tilted and his lips parted. _Like a puppy._ ) “… Just us?” 

Spencer has given him the perfect out, and Derek almost takes it; after all, it’d be easier to just backpedal. He could say that that _wasn’t_ what he’d meant, and all of this would be over.

 _God, what the hell has gotten into you?_ He thinks. _Be a man, dammit._

Derek reaches out and tucks a stray curl behind Spencer’s ear. “I was thinking just us, if you like just us.”

_There it is._

_There’s his game._

“No I—I do! Absolutely. I like…that.” Spencer is nervous—stammering, fidgeting with a loose chip of paint on the countertop. Derek wants to pull him closer and slip his thumb between Reid’s glossy lips. (He wonders, almost against his own will, if Spencer would suck on his fingers right here in the unit if he told him to.)

“Great. Can I call you about that?” 

Spencer bites his lip and nods eagerly. He lifts his mug to his face.“Yeah. Yes, I…would like that a lot.” 

They stand in an uncomfortable silence for a few seconds before Emily aggressively shoves the door open, giving Spencer a visible scare. (The way his coffee sloshes when he jumps reminds Derek of the T-shirt he’d lent him on Monday, which he has yet to get back.) “Hey,” Emily says. “Good news and bad news. Good news is that we don’t have to work on our closing files today.” 

Reid perks up.

“Bad news,” Emily continues, “is that it’s because Hotch is making everyone watch that stupid annual field safety thing— _four months early_ —because of you two stooges. JJ said to tell you we’re starting in three minutes.” 

Spencer sighs and sets his mug down on the counter. “Gosh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to inconvenience you guys. I know _every word_ of that presentation, this is—is this really necessary? I think I… _get it_ at this point, you know? I don’t need the refresher, if it’s me he’s worried about.” 

Emily jerks her thumb in the direction of Hotch’s office and steps out of the doorframe. “Take it up with the boss. Follow orders next time, maybe? I’ll see you in the briefing room.” 

Once she’s shut the door behind her, Derek emphatically rolls his eyes and laces his fingers behind his head. “I’m not taking anything up with Hotch when he’s this pissed at me.” 

“No kidding. You know, I was wondering why he was making such a big deal about us being here on time today, he...doesn’t usually mention it.”

The exchange is stilted and unnecessary. They’re just talking like coworkers, but, as of a few moments ago, there is now officially more to their relationship than _coworking_ , so this manner of speaking feels awkward at best and desperately avoidant at worst.

Derek pats Spencer affectionately on the shoulder. “We should go.”

As they leave the break room, Derek rests a hand on the small of Spencer’s back.

For the first time Derek can remember, he doesn’t tense at the touch.

* * *

It’s a bit of a hassle to rally everyone in the briefing room when no one has any interest in being there. 

First, Hotch notices that Rossi is missing, and has to send JJ across the hall to go find him.

“He always thinks he’s exempt from Bureau requirements,” Hotch mutters. “Writes a book and thinks he’s the exception to everything.”

“Uh-oh. Am I sensing some tension here?” Emily asks, smugly leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs. “That’s a field risk factor, isn’t it? Yeah. Interpersonal conflict between teammates?”

“Don’t,” Derek warns, only because he feels he has an obligation to. No one likes the retrainings, and it inevitably causes some degree of petty inter-team strife. (Honestly, even if there _were_ a way to prevent the bickering, Derek wouldn’t do it - it’s the only entertainment he gets for the eight-hour duration of the presentation.) 

Once JJ has brought Rossi into the room, ( _“I_ **_made_ ** _this unit. You think I don’t know field safety, Aaron? I feel insulted and patronized”),_ Hotch asks her where Garcia is. 

“She doesn’t usually come to these, sir,” JJ says. “She’s not in the field, so...it’s...not actually required?”

“Well, today, it is, because I’m requiring it. I think it’d be good for her to see it,” Hotch insists. There’s a dark, sadistic glint in his eyes, not unlike that of a serial killer delighting in the torture of whatever poor young woman has fallen into his grasp. 

_He’s punishing us with bureaucracy,_ Derek thinks. _Sick bastard._

Hotch sends JJ out to retrieve Penelope, who (as Derek had expected) enters the briefing room in an intensely bad mood. 

“I knew I should’ve gone for that second mimosa,” she whispers in Derek’s ear as she sits down hard in the chair next to him and tosses her lavishly decorated lanyard onto the floor. 

Derek chuckles. “You and me both,” he whispers back.

After everyone is situated and they’re nearly ready to begin the training, Emily asks Hotch if she can go make microwave popcorn for “ _movie day_.” 

She’s just poking at him, trying to see (as usual) if she can get underneath his skin, but Reid visibly perks up at the suggestion, so Derek decides to play along. 

“That’s serious brain food,” he quips. “We can all focus better if we eat breakfast, huh?”

“ _Microwave popcorn_ is not a _breakfast_ ,” Hotch says. “Eat breakfast before you report to work and this won’t be an issue.” 

“Oh, _I_ always eat breakfast,” Derek says. “What about you, pretty boy?” 

He looks over at Reid, who is sitting criss-cross-applesauce in his chair and taking apart a mechanical pencil from the Communal Pen Cup. 

Reid flushes lightly at the nickname. (Derek wonders with a vague sadness, for about the hundredth time since Monday, why Spencer had previously been so eager to interpret this playful flirtatiousness as _malice._ How could he have so low an opinion of him? What has he done to Spencer that’s made him think this way?) “I, um. No, I didn’t eat this morning, but I don’t need-”

“There you go,” Emily cries, pointing emphatically at Reid, nearly smacking JJ in the face as she quietly doodles on a notepad. “What about Reid, huh, Hotch? He’s _hungry._ ”

“I’m alright,” Spencer (who is too smart to be involving himself in a conflict between Prentiss and Hotch) insists.

Hotch stares at them from the front of the room. “Reid,” he says.

“Yes, sir?”

“Will you be better able to absorb this material if you have...breakfast?”

(Derek doesn’t miss the bitter reluctance with which Hotch refers to the popcorn as “breakfast.” He wonders, for a moment, if Hotch has some sort of personal vendetta against the idea of popcorn as a breakfast food, or if this is a new issue.)

“ _Yes_ ,” Penelope hisses, leaning around Derek’s back to address Reid like she’s trying to help him cheat at jeopardy. 

Reid bites at his lower lip. (It’s just uncertainty, but Derek has to consciously stop his mind from wandering. _Fuck_ , he’s got it bad.) “...Uh. Yes?”

Hotch glares at them a moment more.

“Fine,” he finally snaps. “I want you back in here in five minutes, Prentiss, and then we’re _really_ starting. That is an order, do you understand me?”

Emily throws her hands up defensively as she stands up to leave. “Sure thing. Who wants a bag?”

Once Emily has come back with bags of microwave popcorn for everyone but Hotch (she’s notably gone more than five minutes, but there’s no way to enforce such an order and she knows it), Hotch finally plays the tape.

“Welcome, agents,” a pleasant, disgustingly familiar female voice says as the Bureau’s logo fades onto an unpleasant, sickeningly blue screen. “Today, we will be reviewing a few of the basic safety measures that are essential to your success as field agents.”

“Stop the video!” Rossi cries.

“What?” Hotch asks, genuine concern lacing his face. “What’s wrong?”

“Pause the video, Aaron.” 

Hotch pauses the video. “Dave—”

“Spencer,” Rossi says.

Reid straightens. “Yes, sir?”

“Get your feet off my furniture.”

Spencer quickly mumbles an apology and tucks his long, thin legs beneath the round table.

(It’s a little disappointing, honestly—Derek likes the way he looks with his knees tucked up.)

“Wait, hold on. This isn’t _your furniture_ ,” Emily says. “Just because you’re—I don’t know what your title is now, but this is _government furniture_. Reid can—” 

Hotch hits the play button on the VHS player, and the woman drones on, interrupting Prentiss’ latest attempt at sowing division and filling Derek’s head with various tidbits he already knows about properly storing a gun and fastening a vest. 

Derek subtly keeps his eyes trained on Reid for most of the day. He unconsciously mouths the narrator’s words (despite how long has Derek has known him, his capacity to _remember_ has never stopped being amazing), nearly falls asleep when they reach the portion of the video that explains how to safely maneuver the SUV’s at high speeds (he holds his slumping head in his hands, which are halfway covered by his brown cardigan), and, throughout the entire eight hours, gently bites at his lower lip every few minutes.

Derek wonders, almost hopefully, if he’s checking to see whether his lip gloss has stayed.

* * *

After the presentation, they’re allowed to go home. Rossi reminds them that they can stay until six, as per usual, but retrainings always put everyone in a bad mood, so no one does. 

Hotch tells them, with blatant smugness, that he hopes they all learned something valuable today, and he’ll be looking forward to discussing the material tomorrow. Emily tells him, with equally blatant viciousness, that she thinks she’s coming down with something, and she’s not sure she’ll be able to make it to this discussion. 

Derek thinks to himself in the elevator on his way downstairs how amusing it is that no great trauma, horror, or significant loss has ever driven so great a wedge between the team as Video Days do.

The days have begun growing shorter, and it’s already getting dark when Derek steps outside. He’s never much liked winter as an adult, particularly in Virginia, where it rarely snows and is instead just dark, cold, and gloomy for five months straight. Derek has never liked living alone - doesn’t appreciate how silent and solemn it can be - but he always feels even _more_ alone in the winter, when it’s dark and empty as he leaves for work and dark and empty as he returns home.

Spencer gently grabs him by the elbow when he’s deep in thought and about halfway to his car, just as Derek had done to him the day before. It catches Derek off guard, but he’s grown so accustomed to the subtleties of Reid’s presence that he knows who it is without having to turn around.

Reid clears his throat. “Hey, Morgan?” He sounds as though he’s horribly unsure of himself and desperately trying to feign confidence (which, Derek supposes, he probably is.) 

“Hey, yourself,” Derek answers, not bothering to free himself from Spencer’s grip. 

“Yeah. Hey.” Spencer shifts uncomfortably. “Um. I was just - could I...possibly...cash in on your previous offer to drive me home?”

Derek smiles. He tries to remember the last time he’d felt so excited at the prospect of spending such a small amount of time alone with someone, and he comes up short. “Sure. Any time.”

* * *

  
  


Spencer is not as fascinated with the fact that Derek has an expensive car as most women tend to be. 

He gently runs his long, delicate fingers over the leather upholstery and chews on his bottom lip. “Masserati,” he mutters, sounding neither impressed nor unimpressed, making the observation strictly as a way to avoid the overwhelming elephant in the room.

“Yup.” Derek sticks the key into the ignition. “Buckle up. Can’t have you flying through the windshield and fuckin’ up my car.”

Spencer smiles and looks up from his lap. “Did you know that Masserati actually used to make spark plugs?” He asks, tugging his seatbelt across his chest. “That was their original intent as a company. The cars were sort of an afterthought.”

Derek raises an eyebrow. “No. I did not. And I never wondered.” 

The car has begun to heat up. Spencer’s tucked his slightly-overgrown hair behind his ears, and the combination of the blush, the ethereal car lighting, and the oversized wool sweater have given him a nearly angelic look. Derek feels as though he’s somehow stumbled upon Heaven itself here in the parking lot of the FBI building.

“Yeah,” Spencer continues. “It was actually founded by an electrician, and he had his three brothers become shareholders in the process of…” he trails off. “What’s wrong? Did I say something?”

Before Derek can stop himself, he leans over the center console, grabs Spencer’s chin in his left hand, and kisses him, slow, hot, and open-mouthed. His lips are slightly chapped and taste of artificial strawberry. 

_Strawberry-watermelon._

For a moment - or several, or dozens, even - time seems to slow in its tracks. All there is of the world is Spencer’s mouth, his soft curls in the hand Derek slides up the back of his neck, and the gentle flow of warm air from a foot away. 

Derek would be content to stay this way for the rest of his life, but the material world calls to him after a moment (drawing him away from this homemade Heaven), and he pulls back to breathe, cradling Spencer’s head in his hand.

Spencer closes his eyes. His breathing is slow and shallow, and his hair has been mussed about his face by movement. 

“Was that okay?” Derek whispers, heart racing as he swallows euphoria and arousal. 

Spencer swallows. “Better,” he whispers back. 

There’s no one around to hear them, but the exchange is too intimate to speak aloud. The words can’t leave the warm, sacred space between their bodies. 

Derek thinks, for the second time that day, about slipping his thumb between Spencer’s lips, but he stops himself. 

Instead, he kisses the younger man’s cheek and sinks back down into the driver’s seat. 

He clears his throat. “Alright. Yeah. Uh, let’s get you home. Remind me of your address?”

Spencer smiles. “It’s, ah, 4120 Sycamore Street.”

“Okay. Give me one second.” Derek reaches to the dashboard to punch Spencer’s address into his GPS. 

Spencer squirms in his seat. “Hey, Derek?”

“Yeah.”

“At my place. Would you...come upstairs with me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for initially saying this was a slow burn and then having them kiss in the third chapter. 😬 I hope you’ll stick with me anyway! Love you, thanks for reading!!


	4. Natural

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Going upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! Thanks for still being here :)
> 
> This chapter is a direct continuation of the last one, so if you're not sure what's going on, the very last scene in chapter 3 should clear it up! (Warning for NC-17 smut.)

Derek chokes.

_Did I hear that right?_

It’s too good to be true, really.

Spencer implies things he doesn’t mean to _all the time_. 

“ _What?_ ” Derek demands, turning in his seat to face Spencer. He’s equal parts amused and shocked. “ _What_ did you just say?”

Spencer shrinks back. “I was—only if you want.” (The panic tells Derek everything he needs to know—yes, he _had_ said what Derek thought he’d said, and furthermore, he’d _meant_ it.) “Actually, nevermind. You know. Nevermind, I...didn’t mean that, I don’t know what I was thinking. Ignore me. Just—”

“Hey.” Derek speaks tenderly, as though he were soothing an upset child. “Reid? Look at me.”

Hesitantly, Spencer looks up at him. He’s flushed almost _red_ , and Derek finds it oddly attractive. He enjoys seeing Spencer all worked up like this.

“I’d love to ‘take you upstairs’,” Derek promises. “I just wasn’t...expecting that.”

Spencer relaxes back into his seat and releases his iron-clad grip on his seatbelt. “Okay,” he mutters. 

“Didn’t think you were gonna put the moves on me so fast, kid,” Derek grins. He puts the car in gear. “You’re a player, huh?” 

“Shut up. And, you know, stop calling me _kid_. That really puts me out of the mood.” 

“Woah,” Derek protests. He turns right out of the parking lot. “Don’t talk to me like that. I’ll call you whatever I want.”

It’s partly just banter—chiseling away at the unfamiliar unease of this uncharted territory—but Derek would be lying if he said he weren’t testing the waters. 

He gets what he hopes for; Spencer bites his glossy lip and squirms every-so-slightly in his seat.

* * *

Spencer’s apartment is small, cozy, and messy, which is exactly what Derek had expected. 

He’s left open, dog-eared books strewn across nearly every flat surface in his common space. His kitchen counter is littered with newspaper clippings and bulging, water-stained journals. 

It’s all so perfectly _Spencer_ that Derek feels a tangible rush of affection for it all immediately upon stepping in the doorway.

Spencer sits him on the living room couch and asks him if he wants a drink. 

He says no, thank you, and before he’s sure what’s happening, Spencer has straddled his lap and is kissing him again. 

It’s not nearly as slow and romantic as their kiss in the car; there’s a certain frantic, undeniable heat this time, and Derek finds himself rapidly melting into it.

He places his hands on Spencer’s waist and tugs him closer. 

Not for the first time, Derek is charmed by how _tiny_ he is. They’re about the same height, but Spencer is so thin and _delicate_ that Derek feels like he could collect Spencer’s entire body into his arms and just hold him there for hours. 

_I would_.

Spencer whimpers a non-verbal plea into Derek’s mouth, and he uses his hands to gently rock Spencer’s slight hips against his own, which provides him with about ten percent of the friction for which his body is screaming. 

It’s not enough; he’s _desperate_ for more. They both are.

Placing a hand on the back of Derek’s neck, Spencer pulls away from the kiss and sucks on a spot below Derek’s jaw. 

It’s a pulse point (Derek guesses that Spencer knows that), and the heat from Spencer’s quickened breath combined with the pressure of his mouth is enough to make Derek’s cock twitch. 

He feels like a teenager in the back of a movie theater. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes. “That’s good, baby.” 

Without thinking, Derek slides his hand up into Spencer’s long, curly hair and gives it a good hard _tug_. 

It’s a bit of a risky move, but Spencer’s hips jerk in Derek’s lap at the pain. He pulls away from where he’s sucking on Derek’s skin and rests his forehead against his collarbone. 

“ _God_ ,” he whispers. 

Derek grins. “You like that?”

He doesn’t give Spencer a chance to answer; he pulls him by his hair back to his mouth and kisses him again.

Spencer reaches between them for Derek’s belt buckle. He begins to clumsily tug at the loose end, his hands trembling ever-so-slightly as he does so. 

At first, Derek absently thinks to himself that he’s hit the jackpot, and he happily leans back to let Spencer undress him. 

It’s only after Spencer’s undone the first buckle that he thinks better of it. 

What was it he’d said to Penelope that morning?

_“He’s not just a normal person.”_

_He’s so much more._

_So much more important to me._

Derek grabs Spencer’s wrist, and he looks up with panic splattered across his face. 

“Wait,” Derek protests, his voice sounding thick and raspy with arousal to even his own ears. “We shouldn’t. Not tonight.” 

Spencer swallows hard and nods. 

_God, he looks_ _so pretty._

“Can I…just…suck you off?” He whispers, staring up at Derek with something dangerously close to a pout.

Derek bites his lip. 

He’s not sure whether it’s a good idea, but _fuck,_ that’s hot. 

Spencer’s sweet, young face screwed up into a glossy-lipped pout, _begging_ for cock in his mouth?

_Fuck._

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses. “Yeah. God, yeah. Fucking hell, baby.” 

Spencer giggles ( _giggles_ , holy _shit_ ) and resumes his work on Derek’s belt. 

Derek tips his head back and stares at Spencer’s ceiling. _It could use repainting_ , he notices; maybe he could offer to repaint the ceiling as a ruse to come back here another time. 

He’s caught up in the ceiling idea (and imagining bending Spencer over his little kitchen counter while still in his renovation clothes) when Spencer hops off of his lap and crouches between his legs. 

Derek tangles his hand in Spencer’s hair again as he begins to rub him through his pants. 

“You’re so big,” Spencer mutters, staring up at him with a half-lidded smile. “I knew you would be.”

“What, you’ve thought this through?” Derek demands. 

_He_ has, too, of course, so the accusatory tone of the question is a little unfair, but the way Spencer blushes is worth the inconvenience of injustice. 

“I mean—I just—”

Derek shushes him. “You think about sucking my cock a lot?”

Spencer bites his lip, and Derek yanks on his hair. 

“Yes,” he asks, “or no? Just tell me, baby. Easy.”

“Yeah. I—I do. All the time. I just wanted it so _badly_.” 

_Fuck._

_Such a little slut._

“Now’s your chance,” Derek says, pulling himself out of his boxers. “Show me what you think about doing.”

Derek is not disappointed. 

Spencer licks at his tip like he’s eating a lollipop, which is _disturbingly_ hot. 

Derek shoves off the thought that Spencer would look cute in schoolgirl pigtails and tries to focus on the situation at hand. 

He tilts his head back again. 

This time, the poor condition of the ceiling doesn’t even cross his mind; Spencer is _surprisingly_ good at giving head, and Derek is already feeling warm and fuzzy less than a minute in. 

He finds himself wondering where on _Earth_ Spencer learned to suck dick like this and realizes that he’s _deeply_ averse to the idea of anyone else having Spencer this way. Derek is not a possessive person by any means, and he never has been, but there’s something about Spencer that draws a certain overprotectiveness out of _everyone_ , and Derek is certainly no exception. 

Derek is drawn from his thoughts by Spencer spitting in his palm and wrapping his hand around his base. 

_Jesus._

_Safe to say he didn’t learn that from a book._

“You’re _good_ ,” Derek says. “That feels _so fucking good,_ baby.” 

Spencer hums around him. It’s more than likely just a response to the praise—Spencer’s always gotten flustered at compliments—but it sends a jolt up Derek’s body that has him involuntarily thrusting up into Spencer’s mouth. 

Spencer chokes, and Derek curses under his breath. 

“Sorry,” he breathes, exerting the willpower of a god into holding his hips still. “Sorry. Did that hurt?” 

Spencer pulls off. A shiny strand of spit and precum trails from his plump bottom lip to the tip of Derek’s cock. “No,” he says, voice slightly raspy from the strain on his throat. “I liked it. …Do it again?” 

_Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck._

_Is this happening?_

“Are you asking me to fuck your throat?” Derek demands. “Is this _you_? Where is this coming from?”

Spencer opens his mouth to reply, but Derek has pulled him back down by his hair before he can take him literally and say something about _psychosexual development_ or Carl Jung or _whatever_.

Derek happily gives him what he wants, thrusting hard into his mouth and staring down into his pretty brown eyes (tearful with the strain of cock in his throat) for a few moments. 

Spencer is warm and pretty enough that it doesn’t take long for Derek’s insides to contract and his vision to cloud with white-hot pleasure, and, once the heat is too much to bear, he pulls out of Spencer’s mouth and cums hard on his lower lip. 

As he regains his breath and attempts to ground himself to his physical being, Derek admires his handiwork. 

Spencer spoons the mess on his chin into his mouth with his index finger, and he greedily licks it up as though it were something to be savored. His cheeks are flushed and streaked with tears, and his lips are swollen and shiny. 

He looks breathtakingly, earth-shatteringly beautiful (though not nearly as _angelic_ as he had earlier), and Derek wishes to _God_ that he had a camera on him to capture this moment.

Spencer leans forward and presses his face to Derek’s thigh.

_Precious._

“You want me to get you off?” Derek asks, combing his fingers through the mess he’s made of Spencer’s hair. “I’d be happy to, pretty boy. You did such a good job.” 

Spencer shakes his head and presses his cheek against the inside of Derek’s knee. He says nothing. 

“Hey,” Derek urges after an uncomfortable moment of waiting for Spencer to speak. “Come up here, cutie. Why’re you still on the floor? Give me some love.”

Spencer shrugs and stands up to sit on the couch beside him. Derek wraps his arms around Spencer’s thin shoulders and lies down, pulling the younger man squarely on top of him. 

Spencer settles almost immediately into the position, lying across Derek’s chest and burying his face in the crook of his neck.

He fits perfectly there.

Derek wraps an arm around him and bites back the urge to profess his love right here and now. 

A moment passes before Spencer finally speaks. When he does, it’s just above an intimidated whisper, as though he’s afraid that something lurking in the shadows will hear him. 

“Hey, Morgan?” 

Derek runs his fingers down Spencer’s spine. “Call me Derek now. What’s up, baby?” 

“I don’t know the best way to ask this, but I need to know. Did I…do something wrong?”

Derek stills. “What? No, of course not. Why?”

“I just…” Spencer curls in closer to Derek’s chest and looks up at him. “You didn’t want me. You didn’t want to have sex. I mean, no offense, but you’re…not exactly a wait-for-marriage type, you know. Did I do something wrong?”

The question is a perfect combination of sweet, heartbreaking, and annoying—it’s perfectly Spencer. Derek pulls Spencer impossibly closer and kisses his sweaty forehead. “Listen,” he says. “I’m not as big of a douchebag as you think, kid. You should know that by now, yeah?” 

Spencer wraps his arm around Derek’s chest. “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.” 

“For real. I don’t fuck and dump anybody unless I _know_ that’s what they’re after, got that? I don’t play people. It’s not that I don’t want you. Don’t think that. I’m just serious about you, Spencer, and I know _that_ —fucking _before_ the first date—isn’t how you like to do it. I like you a lot, and I wanna show you that. I want you so bad. Just…let me take you out first, okay?” 

Spencer nods. “Okay,” he whispers. “Can I ask you something else?”

Derek runs his fingers through Spencer’s tangled hair. “Anything.” 

“When did you…? How long ago did you start thinking of me…like this?”

The question catches Derek off guard.

He’s not even sure, honestly; it almost feels as if he was _born_ loving Spencer. It feels so right, so _natural_ , to lie here on Spencer’s couch with the younger man cuddled into his chest that he can’t imagine anything different. He could die right here and be perfectly content. 

Derek kisses Spencer’s curls. “Long time,” he admits. “Since the church, I guess. When you were in there with Prentiss…” he trails off. He hopes that Spencer will somehow understand—that Derek’s firm, protective grip on his thin waist will, by some miracle, convey every bit of the gut-wrenching terror he’d felt that day. 

_You’re important to me._

“Wow,” Spencer whispers. “I didn’t even know you liked men.” 

“Of course I do.” 

“Okay. Well, I obviously know that _now,_ thank you, I’m saying that— _before_ —”

Derek grins. “I’m messin’ with you, genius.” 

They sit in peaceful silence for a moment, listening absentmindedly to the hum of the distant highway and the occasional gust of wind against Spencer’s window. Derek thinks to himself that it must be _freezing_ outside, and he wraps both of his arms around Spencer, indulging in his warmth. 

“I always liked you,” Spencer whispers. 

Derek frowns. His heart rate picks up slightly, and he wonders if Spencer notices the shift. “Yeah?” 

“I never thought you…I never thought you’d ever look at me that way. The waY—? Right. So I never really wanted to let myself think about it. I never thought about _this_ , but I…I can’t believe that now. It seems so…?” 

“Natural?” Derek finishes.

“Right.” 

Derek hums contentedly and gently tugs on one of Spencer’s curls. “It does feel natural, doesn’t it?” 

Spencer just nods and closes his eyes. 

Derek lovingly strokes his hair, still nearly in awe at the simple fact that this is _really_ _Spencer_. 

How often had he dreamed of this very thing?

How often had he scolded himself and told himself that this, this simple, perfect warmth, was impossible and wrong?

The last thought he has before he falls asleep with Spencer’s face buried in the crook of his neck is that _this_ is where he belongs, and that sleeping alone will never again feel quite right. 

_But maybe_ , he silently muses as he begins to drift, _I won’t have to._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Steamy.
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoyed, and I hope you'll consider leaving a kudo/comment if you did :)! See you next week!


	5. Lovable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts from the day after. Spencer tries some new products.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! 
> 
> To be perfectly honest, I'm not super proud of this chapter, because it's sort of a filler. I really wanted to post an update this week, since so many people asked, but I've been very busy, so it turned out rushed and not super great. Sorry. :(
> 
> If you follow me on Tumblr, you know that I'm a Penelope stan first and a human being second, so this chapter is kind of like my tribute to Penelope haha
> 
> I hope you enjoy!!!

Derek wakes up in an unfamiliar place with a face full of messy hair.

He’s warm. 

It’s still dark outside. 

The air is dusty and thin. 

His arm is asleep. 

_Spencer_ , he lovingly remembers as he registers sharp shoulder blades beneath the pads of his fingers. He closes his eyes, tugs Spencer closer to him, and drifts off again.

_My Spencer._

He wakes up again to _his Spencer_ hitting him across the face with a throw pillow.

“ - _up_!” He’s shouting, scrambling over to the kitchen counter. 

“What?” Derek mutters, sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. “ _What_?”

“We’re _late_! Get _up_! Get - get your stupid -” Spencer grabs Derek’s keys off of the counter and flings them at him from across the room. The throw falls short, and the keys land a foot and a half in front of the couch. Derek looks down at them distastefully. 

“Un- _believable_!” Spencer cries, as though it’s Derek’s fault he can’t throw to save his life.

Derek rolls his eyes and hoists himself off of the couch. 

He’s still in the same clothes he’d been wearing when he’d left the office - _of course, because I didn’t undress, didn’t want to rush_ \- so he slips his boots back on and escorts Spencer out the door without further incident.

Before he closes the door behind him, Derek looks back into Spencer’s messy little apartment to drink everything in.

He silently prays to whatever may be out there that he’ll get to see it again.

* * *

  
The team is halfway through a briefing when Derek opens the door.

JJ has pictures of a slaughtered horse up on the projection board, Rossi is falling asleep fully sitting up ( _at least it’s not all that important_ , Derek thinks), and Penelope is covering her eyes with her left hand.

“Kind of you two to join us,” Hotch says, not looking up from his folder. 

“I am _so_ sorry, sir,” Spencer rushes, scrambling to take his seat next to Emily. “I’m so sorry, we…” 

“We carpooled in,” Derek seamlessly lies. The team take enough turns driving Reid to and fro that it’s not at all an outlandish story, and everyone but Penelope (who has removed her hand from her eyes and is giving him the look she gives him when she _knows things_ ) seems to buy it completely. “Traffic. Sorry, Hotch.” 

Hotch sighs. “Don’t let it happen again. JJ, what were you saying?” 

JJ continues her presentation about possible warning signs of an upcoming murder in Kansas. Penelope moves her hand back over her eyes, but not before shooting Derek a mischievous glance from across the table.

He chooses to ignore her.

* * *

  
  


Try as he might, Derek can never evade Penelope for long. 

He’s working— _trying_ to work—next to Spencer, watching the way his tongue prods at his plump bottom lip when he dives deep into concentration and the way he always seems to insist upon bringing whatever writing utensil he’s working with back to his mouth, ( _god_ , that _mouth_ ), when she walks up behind him and squeezes his shoulder.

He jumps.

“In my office,” Penelope whispers in his ear. “Ten minutes.”

Derek rolls his eyes. (He’s relieved, really, that it’s just _her_ , and that no one else has seen him so blatantly staring at Spencer’s beautiful lips.) “Don’t talk to me like you’re some kind of authority. I can—” 

“Ten minutes.” 

Exactly ten minutes later, like some sort of pawn, Derek excuses himself from his desk. He swears he feels Spencer’s eyes on him as he leaves, and it’s all he can do not to turn and kiss him right there in the middle of the pen.

Derek opens Penelope’s door without knocking, because his mind is in another place this morning (between Spencer’s legs, namely,) and the idea of privacy temporarily escapes him.

She startles at the intrusion and turns around with her arms raised as if to yell, but drops her defenses upon seeing his face.

“Well, if it isn’t the beautiful Agent Morgan!” She exclaims. “ _So_ nice to see you on this fine, lovely morning. Hey, am I going _totally_ crazy, or were you wearing that _exact_ same outfit yesterday when you took Reid home?” 

Derek sighs and shuts the door behind him. “Yeah. This does not leave this office,” he orders. 

Penelope shrugs. “Your wish is my command, hot stuff. What’s up? Did something happen last night?”

“Not exactly.”

“I’m hearing yes.” She slaps the counter. “Sit! Tell me everything!”

He tells her everything, and she listens eagerly and attentively.

He tells her how she was right about asking Spencer to dinner. (“Duh,” she interjects.) He tells her about kissing him in the passenger seat of his car as the engine heated up. He tells her how he was still wearing the lip gloss Derek had given him at the hospital, and how he had reapplied it on the drive to his apartment. He tells her just how fucking _bad_ he has it, mentioning the palatable rush of affection he’d felt at the sight of Spencer’s cluttered living room. He tells her how he hadn’t wanted to sleep with Spencer just yet, and how _natural_ it had felt to fall asleep with the younger man on top of his chest. 

“It was the best night of my life,” he says. 

“Aw. That’s _sweet_ ,” she coos. “I’m happy for you guys.”

“Baby, I’m _completely_ serious. I…” 

Derek isn’t sure what to say that won’t make him sound utterly ridiculous and devastatingly womanly. 

_He’s the one?_

_He’s my soulmate?_

_He’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of?_

“He’s important to me,” he eventually decides.

Penelope smiles. “That he is, my love.” 

Derek closes three files that day. 

He’s usually able to close about fourteen, but it’s damn near _impossible_ to focus on _anything_ when Spencer is sitting four feet from him with his sweater sleeves covering his palms and his pen between his lips.

There are a few things Derek hadn’t noticed about Spencer until today. 

He used to only allow himself an occasional indulgent glance at Spencer out of the corners of his eyes, and, furthermore, would immediately jerk his gaze apologetically away when Spencer seemed to notice that he was being watched.

Now, he keeps his eyes firmly trained on Spencer (because he feels that he _can_ ), and for the first time, he notices the way he seems to constantly bounce his right leg up and down, and the way he whispers occasional utterances of confusion to himself as he writes. 

Derek takes note of these things, and he gathers them up and puts a pin in them to keep them forever in a place beneath his heart.

“Reid,” he whispers, leaning across his desk. 

Spencer perks up. “Hm?”

_Just like a puppy._

“Friday,” Derek says. 

“Wh -”

“Let me take you out. Friday. Tomorrow.” 

Spencer looks startled, but quickly nods. “Oh! Yes. That’s...tomorrow. Uh, very soon. Of course.”

Derek reaches under the table to squeeze Spencer’s thigh. 

* * *

  
_Pick up._

Spencer’s never been on a real, formal date before.

_Pick up._

He has no _idea_ what’s expected of him.

_Pick up. Please._

Spencer _hates_ not knowing.

_Please. Pick up._

He needs someone who _knows_. 

_Pick up._

Someone who knows her way around these sorts of situations.

 _Please_.

Someone who knows _Derek_.

_Pick up._

Someone he respects. Admires. 

_Pick -_

“Hello?”

_Thank you._

Spencer takes a deep breath. “Hey, Garcia? Sorry to bug you. Um, I know it’s late. I have a... _date_ tomorrow night, actually, and I - I really liked the way you did your...eyelids...today, and I was wondering if you could show me how you...did that? Uh, teach me, maybe? If you have time, tomorrow, or...?”

“Hold on. Are you asking me to help you get ready for your date?” 

Spencer can’t see her, of course, but he can tell she’s grinning.

He swallows. “I just thought—”

“Oh, my gosh, this will be so much fun! Okay. Wait, do you want me to teach you _now_ , so you can go out and get your own stuff, or do you want me to get you ready tomorrow afternoon, so you have my special, signature look about you? The Penelope Bombshell Blowout? Wait, hold on, sugar, I’m in my makeup right now. Are you a cool or a warm toned foundation? Do you know? I would _guess_ cool. I’m a warm, so you can try it, but—”

“Garcia?”

“Yes, baby Einstein.”

“I’m... _extremely_ novice.”

“Right. Sorry. Sorry! I’m excited! I love... _love_ , you know? And you both deserve this _so much_ , you’re my favorite people, and I want to make sure it goes _amazing._ ”

Spencer’s stomach churns.

_You both deserve this._

_Both._

_You’re my favorite people._

“Hold on,” he protests. “What did you say? Your favorite _people_?”

She goes silent. “...Educated guess? That I would like this...person?”

_God, she’s a bad liar._

“Did he tell you?” Spencer asks.

“Who?”

“ _Garcia?”_

She sighs. “Okay, yes, he did, but it was only because he needed advice. Only because he really, _really_ likes you, and he’s _lost_ without me. You’re very important to him. You understand, right? Don’t be mad at him. You should be mad at me, if anyone. He told me in confidence, and I -”

“I’m not mad,” Spencer says. It’s the truth—he’s _relieved_ that she knows. “I just...could you show me something simple you think he might like?” 

“Oh, doll. It’d be an honor. Come over.”

She hangs up with no further discussion.

* * *

Stepping into Penelope’s apartment often feels to Spencer like entering an alternate dimension where nothing is wrong and everything is purple.

It’s no different this time; here, he feels safe and taken care of. 

Penelope has got it under control. 

Penelope isn’t intimidated by Derek.

He’s set this fragment of the whole affair in her well-decorated hands. 

“I’ve always thought about doing your makeup, actually,” Penelope says, holding Spencer’s chin in her hand and inspecting his face as though she’s checking for injuries. The cold of her fingers and the slight pressure sends an odd wave of calm radiating through him.

“You have such nice cheekbones, and so much lid space.”

Spencer frowns. “Lid space?”

“You have big eyelids. More room to work with eyeshadow.”

“ _Big eyelids_ ,” Spencer mutters. “I’ve...never heard anyone use that as a compliment before.” 

“Mm. Spend more time around girls.” 

“I tried,” he quips. “Finally gave up. I’m, ah, dating men now, if you noticed.”

“Aw. Poor baby,” Penelope giggles, letting go of his chin and turning in her chair. “Imagine having to settle for _Derek Morgan_. You’ve got it hard.”

Spencer is tempted to apologize, to tell her that _of course_ that wasn’t what he meant (he knows how close she is with Derek, and he doesn’t want her to think that Derek has anything but the deepest adoration Spencer has to offer), but he picks up on her playful intonation and instead just smiles down at his feet.

“Okay,” Penelope says, spinning back around. She’s holding a pink tube of _something_ and a pointy, oblong sponge about the size of Spencer’s thumb. “I don’t have your foundation shade, so I’m just gonna start by covering up some spots with this concealer, alright?” 

She doesn’t wait for an answer. She gently grabs Spencer’s chin in her cold fingers before he has a chance to tell her that _that’s fine, thank you,_ and as she applies the peach-colored cream to the tip of the sponge, he reflects on the fact that he’s been touched more in the past week than he had in the span of the previous _months._

 _It’s nice,_ he thinks. 

Spencer relaxes into Penelope’s grip and allows her to dab the cream over a small scar beneath his cheekbone. 

She works hard but keeps her touch gentle (just as she does with every other bit of her life), leaning in close to Spencer’s face and scrunching up her nose in concentration as she attempts to better him. For an odd, fleeting moment, Spencer has the distinct urge to lay his head on her shoulder and pull her in for the sort of hug he’d always given Diana, but she finishes what she’s doing and leans back without incident. 

She smiles and places her hands over her heart. “Aw. There we go. Fresh complexion!”

“Did you get around my eyes?” Spencer asks. It’s a trick question - he knows that she hadn’t, and he feels that she must have forgotten. He wants to jog her memory without being imposing. 

Penelope makes a distasteful face and shakes her head. “No. I think your circles are cool. I think we should leave ‘em.”

It’s the first time Spencer’s ever heard something good about the discoloration. He looks across the room at Penelope’s bright purple beaded curtain and chokes back tears. “Thank you,” he whispers. 

“Blush now, my prince. Hey—no crying! You know I don’t like sad.”

Spencer sniffs. “Of course. My apologies.”

Penelope applies several more products to Spencer’s face, nose-scrunching her way through everything and never losing her patience, no matter how many times Spencer compulsively squirms and messes up a delicate, ritualistic brushing of some sort of gel across his eyelid or lower lip.

Thirty six minutes later, she sits back and flashes Spencer her contagious smile, looking him up and down like an artist admiring a newly carved marble bust. Spencer finds it a bit nerve-wracking to be studied so intensely. “ _Okaaay_ ,” she sings. “Ready, for your viewing pleasure!” 

She picks a pink plastic handheld mirror up off of her desk and hands it to Spencer with the reflective side down, as though he’s never seen his reflection before in his life.

He may as well not have; he hardly recognizes himself. 

Penelope’s painted some sort of red-to-white gradient across his eyelids, and these pink tones combined with those decorating his cheeks and lips bring a lively, almost _erotic_ flush to his face. She’s applied enough mascara (and some sort of sharp, dark line just above his lashes) that his eyes look wider, darker, and far, _far_ more eager than they usually do. Just as she’d promised, she’d left the circles around his eyes untouched, and, just as she’d promised, they _do_ look sort of cool. 

For the first time he can remember, he sees something in himself. 

He feels attractive.

Loveable.

 _Fuckable_ , he thinks to himself, then tucks the word gently away.

“Wow,” he whispers. “Oh, _wow_. I look...so different.”

“You like it? I made it kinda sexy and mysterious. You know, like, ‘ooh, _how_ many PhD’s?’ Or something.”

“I love it. I _love_ it, Garcia, I...thank you. I don’t even know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything, my love. I know my magic powers can be overwhelming.” 

She’s uncomfortable—deflecting. 

Penelope doesn’t know how to deal with this awkward culmination of months of emotion any more than Spencer himself does. 

They sit in silence for a few beats.

“Hey,” Penelope says, right when Spencer needs it, “you wanna watch a movie? You can crash here. It’ll be fun. Supergenius sleepover?”

Spencer smiles. “It’s a work night, right?”

“Psh. Yeah. But I’m not _Derek._ I can get you there on time.”

 _This would be the second time this week I’ve fallen asleep not-alone_ , Spencer realizes.

_Second time._

_Second time this week after so many years alone._

“I’d love that,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Sending much love, and a better update next week :)
> 
> PLEASE leave a comment if you enjoyed, or you have a suggestion! Love you!


	6. Crush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hot, heavy, and pretty 💖

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being MIA last week! I had fucking oral surgery and so I was totally doped out for most of the week and then my university closed and I was all sad and didn't feel like writing gay FBI porn, but I'm back now, bright and early on this lovely Friday :)
> 
> This chapter is extremely explicit, so read at your own risk.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and as always, hope you enjoy! Creds to @ rxseinbloom for beta!

Derek’s father, certainly among the last true gentlemen, had always told him that a respectable first date with someone one intends to see again should end with a lighter wallet and a chaste goodnight kiss. 

_Technically_ , by these standards, Derek has succeeded in being gentlemanly, because their restaurant was expensive enough to make Spencer and his three PhDs worth of student loan debt blush, and he _did_ , in fact, get a chaste goodnight kiss. 

He got a chaste goodnight kiss, and then another one, and then _another_ one, and then a significantly _less_ chaste goodnight kiss, and then a hickey just below his jawline, and then Spencer said _“I want you inside me,”_ and what was he going to do?

Say “no?” 

_“No, Spencer Reid, my heavenly wet dream, gorgeous boy who put on mascara and pink lipstick for me, I do not want to be inside you?”_

No—it would hardly be proper first date conduct to outright lie that way, would it? 

Honesty, after all, is _always_ the best policy, especially in a serious relationship. 

Alright; maybe it’s going a _bit_ fast, and maybe Derek should be waiting, but he and Spencer live their lives in near _-constant_ peril. They spend their days facing horrors the likes of which most people will never be able to so much as imagine—blood and guts and bodily trauma that worm their way into every one of Derek’s dreams. Evil _so_ profound that belief in God becomes fraught and unjustifiable, motherless children, childless mothers, and _Jesus_ , when _nothing_ is guaranteed, and every inch of one’s life is soaked in blood and trauma, is it so bad, so _wrong_ , to want to immediately be loved? To love someone else?

When living a life in which a _next week_ may not happen, is it so wrong to not wait for next week?

No—it’s far too difficult to _wait_ when Derek feels as if he’s been waiting a thousand lifetimes already. He’s loved Spencer long enough (and with enough desperation) that bringing him into his bed, even immediately following a first date, feels nothing short of heavenly and euphoric. 

To wait would be to push Spencer away from something they both _desperately_ want, all for the sake of performing importance.

Derek doesn’t need to perform—Spencer simply _is_ important, and Derek is confident that this fact will shine through every moment they spend together.

Spencer is somewhat uncomfortable undressing at first, but Derek kisses his neck until he’s delirious and coming undone beneath him, and he smiles lazily up at Derek as he undresses him.

Spencer’s skin is smooth, milky, and mostly hairless, and his hip bones jut sharply out from his body when he lies on his back. 

Everything about him is angelic. 

He’s smaller than Derek had expected, but it’s no matter—he fits perfectly in the palm of his hand, and he grows flush and erect quickly as Derek touches him. 

“Are you ready?” Derek mutters into his neck once they’re both sufficiently worked up and Spencer’s lipstick has begun to smudge.

Spencer closes his eyes and nods. “More than.”

Derek climbs off of Spencer and steps away from the bed to pull his lube out of his desk drawer. 

“Is that cherry?” Spencer almost immediately asks, looking over at him with a disapproving scowl from where he lies on the bed. 

Derek blinks. “Yeah. Do you…care?” 

“Hm. Well, don’t get it in my mouth. I really don’t like the way cherry tastes.” 

“It’s not going anywhere near your mouth tonight,” Derek promises, making a mental note to buy a different flavor for next time. 

He climbs back onto the bed and positions himself between Spencer’s thin, pale thighs. Gently, half-bantering and half-experimenting, he smacks the inside of Spencer’s left thigh. “I don’t like your tone, though. Don’t boss me around, kid. Watch your pretty mouth.” 

Spencer giggles and closes his eyes. “Sorry,” he lies. (Derek can tell he’s lying, because Spencer doesn’t _smirk_ like that when he’s actually feeling remorseful.) “I meant, _pleeeease_ don’t get it in my mouth.”

“That’s better.” Derek grabs him by his narrow hips and effortlessly pulls him closer. 

Spencer is so slight and delicate that Derek almost feels like he could inadvertently snap him in half with a single poorly-planned motion. He shivers as he lightly runs his hands up and down Spencer’s sides. The younger man’s protruding ribs feel like glass (or maybe hollow, weightless bird’s bones) beneath Derek’s calloused fingertips, and he marvels at the way he’s nearly able to encircle Spencer’s entire waist with his hands. “You’re so little,” he murmurs, in awe and reverence.

Spencer makes a disinterested humming sound at the back of his throat. His posture has changed ever-so-slightly—his shoulders are tense, and he’s biting at the inside of his cheek. 

_Nervous tell_.

Derek uncaps the hated cherry lubricant. “What’re you thinkin’ about?” 

“I’m thinking about...you,” Spencer says. He sounds nervous, almost contrived, and he doesn’t look into Derek’s eyes as he bats his own open and gazes at the ceiling.

“Yeah? You look tense, babe. Do I scare you?” 

“Mmm…? A little bit, honestly. That’s not...why I’m tense, but, yeah, a little bit.”

Derek feels shattered. It’s that same guilty unhappiness with which he’d been overcome on Monday in the hospital, when he’d handed Spencer that watermelon lip gloss. “Why?”

_Why don’t you trust me?_

_Why are you so afraid of me?_

_Why do you think so little of me?_

_Why, why, why?_

“Well, I don’t know,” Spencer mumbles, folding his arms over his nearly concave stomach. “It’s not _you_ , it’s just - it’s _this_. This part always…? _Every time_ , no matter who I’m with, it’s...in the field, _these_ situations, this exact moment is when dangerous people always seem to _become dangerous_ , right? It’s—the fact that you could _probably_ kill me with your bare hands if you wanted to, or restrain me and stab me as-as many times as you wanted, or something, and I’m lying here—”

Derek sighs. “Hey. Look at me.”

Spencer looks up at him. The mascara makes his eyes look bigger, softer, _sweeter_ , and Derek is so overcome with love that he props himself up on one arm to caress Spencer’s face.

“I told you this,” Derek reminds him. “I told you the other day, remember? I will never, _ever_ hurt you. I mean, I get it, okay? More than you know. I _promise_. I know we see a lot of scary shit that can make it hard to be vulnerable. But I _promise,_ you’re always safe with me, sweetheart. I’m here to...protect you, and make you feel good. I can prove that to you. Okay?”

Spencer glances up at the ceiling again. After a moment, though, he nods and wraps his arms around Derek’s neck. “Alright,” he whispers. “Sorry. I don’t know where that comes from, it’s just...every time.”

Derek bends at the elbow and softly kisses Spencer’s pretty, done-up pink lips. He brushes his thumb over the still-fresh scar where Williams had smacked Spencer with the AR the other day, and it hits him just how much has had to go perfectly right—and perfectly _wrong_ , for that matter—for the two of them to be here tonight, alive, happy, and together this way. 

_Thank you_ , he thinks in the direction of no one in particular.

After a few moments, Spencer gently pushes Derek away. “I’m ready now,” he whispers, cradling Derek’s face in his palms. “Whenever you are.”

“Born ready,” Derek whispers back, which makes Spencer giggle. (Spencer giggling is Derek’s favorite sound, he decides. If he could, he’d bottle Spencer Giggles and keep them in little glass bottles on his mantlepiece, then uncap them and listen whenever he was unhappy.) 

Derek sits back on his haunches and squeezes a generous dollop of cherry lube onto his palm. (He’s never had this particular flavor in his mouth before, but now that he thinks about it, Spencer just might have a point—it sort of smells like the cherry cough syrup his mother had given him as a kid, and he _specifically_ remembers it tasting absolutely atrocious.) “Spread a little more for me?” He requests, and Spencer pulls his knees up and does as he’s asked. 

“You look so good like this, baby,” Derek mutters, reaching up to gently stroke him as he presses his fingers to his entrance. “My pretty boy.”

Spencer bites his lip and arches his back. His thighs start to shake. ( _So desperate_ , Derek thinks to himself.) Derek crosses his middle finger over his index and gently pushes inside of him, eliciting a high-pitched, wanton moan that makes Derek’s cock twitch.

He curses under his breath.

“Does that feel okay?” He asks, gently probing in the direction of Spencer’s spine. 

Spencer squeezes his eyes shut and nods. “Mhm. Feels good.”

“Okay. Good to move?”

“Mhm.”

Carefully, keeping his eyes on Spencer’s face to watch for pain and nervousness, Derek begins to scissor his fingers, opening his pretty boy up for him. As raunchy as it is, there’s something sweet and almost _innocent_ about the closeness of the moment.

After a few minutes, Derek pulls back and rubs at Spencer’s hips. “Ready?”

He smiles almost sleepily, his eyes half lidded, and nods. 

Derek hops off of the bed and goes into his desk drawer again.

“What are you doing?” Spencer asks, propping himself up on his elbows to frown at Derek from several feet away. 

“Condom,” he answers simply.

Spencer’s face crumples.

“What’s up?” Derek asks, climbing back up on the bed and rubbing Spencer’s slightly-sparkly cheek with the side of his thumb.

Spencer shakes his head. “I...don’t...do we have to...have that? I really wanna feel you.”

The way Spencer asks to _feel him_ makes Derek’s heart swell, but he shakes his head nonetheless. “Just this once, pretty boy, okay? I’ll get tested. I could never live with myself if something happened to you.” 

Looking somewhat unsure but certainly resigned, Spencer nods. “Alright.”

Derek kisses his forehead and reaches down to cradle his hip as he lines himself up with Spencer’s entrance. Spencer wraps his legs around Derek’s hips and stares up into his eyes. 

Slowly, with all of the restraint he can muster, Derek pushes into him. He’s tight, slick, and _overwhelmingly_ hot, and it takes the willpower of a _god_ to not immediately pull back and fuck into him as hard as possible. 

Spencer’s breath against Derek’s ear is shallow, whimpering, and rapid. 

Derek kisses the spot where his jaw meets his neck. “Am I hurting you?” He whispers, trailing a hand up Spencer’s abdomen and marveling at the way goosebumps instantly rise beneath his fingertips, as though Spencer’s entire body is on edge for him.

“Uh, a little. Good hurt, though.” 

_Fuck_. 

Derek feels like he could explode. He _desperately_ craves friction. “Okay. Just tell me when you’re ready, okay, baby? Whenever you want.” 

They sit in silence and stillness and labored breathing for a few moments, the overwhelming need for movement slowly eating Derek from the inside out as he throbs inside of Spencer. He strokes Spencer’s pretty curls and attempts to level his breath in the face of the feverish heat.

“...Okay,” Spencer whispers, after what feels like an eternity. “But, just so you know, you don’t have to…” he trails off. 

“What?” Derek asks, unreasonably nervous. “What is it?” 

Spencer looks up at him with those big, sultry brown eyes. His eye makeup has slowly begun to smudge onto the spaces beneath, and he _already_ looks so fucked out and slutty that Derek feels a strong (and, luckily) passing urge to spit on him. “I’m not, like...a virgin, or anything,” he whispers.

“That’s okay,” Derek promises, denying himself the pleasure of jealousy. “I don’t mind at all, sweetheart. Why? What’s up?”

“It’s not that,” Spencer mutters. “I just wanted to let you know, I…I can…handle it, if you want to…?”

Derek opens his mouth to ask what Spencer is talking about, _realizes_ what Spencer is talking about, and promptly closes his mouth again to stuff his arousal far back enough in his throat to speak. He grins. “My baby likes it rough, huh?” 

Spencer swallows and presses his lips together. “Sometimes.” 

“Is this one of those times?”

He closes his eyes and parts his pink lips to suck in a shaking, lustful breath. “ _Yes_. Yes, _fuck_ , I...I want you to...hurt me.”

_Fuck._

_Jesus Christ._

Derek presses his forehead to Spencer’s temple. “Say that again,” he mutters. “Tell me again, babe.”

“ _I want you to hurt me_ ,” Spencer whispers, barely audible over the hum of the heating system.

That’s all he needs - he pulls back, nearly all the way out, and slams back into Spencer hard enough to shake the headboard.

He moves like that for a few minutes, tangling his hands in Spencer’s hair and pulling his head back to mouth at his neck—to kiss him, _mark him_ , thinking nothing of the consequences of making Spencer visibly his own. (He thinks nothing of _anything_ , really, but of how _tight_ and _hot_ Spencer is, and how _beautiful_ his desperate whining is, and how their hands fit together nearly perfectly intertwined next to the curly halo of Spencer’s hair on the pillow.) 

After a moment, in an attempt to give equal to what he’s getting, Derek roughly shoves one of Spencer’s knees up to his chest and readjusts his hips. (He’s pleased at how pliable and easily manipulated Spencer’s body is, and, much like the cherry lube, he tucks this information away into a safe place for later.)

Spencer cries out at the newfound depth, his plump lips falling open in an _O_ -shape. “Oh my _god,_ ” he breathes, arching his back up off of the mattress and raking his trembling fingers down Derek’s back. “Oh, _oh_. There! There, please?”

Derek grins. _I didn’t even ask him to say please_ , he notes. _How polite_. “Thank you for asking so nicely, sweetheart.” He presses his lips to Spencer’s cheek and whispers low, loving, and deep into his ear: “ _You’re a good boy, you know that?_ ”

Spencer whines, all high-pitched and needy, and pulls Derek in deeper with his heels. “Oh, th-thank you. _Ah!_ Oh, oh, that’s—you—you got it. Oh, my _god_.” 

“Mmm. You’re chatty,” Derek pants. He’s unsure whether he’s smiling—he _could_ be, but most of his sensory input is coming from elsewhere, and it’s distracting. _Overwhelming_ , even. “Tell me what you want, pretty boy. What do you want, beautiful?” 

“I want _you_.”

“You _have_ me, baby. I’m right here. Always gonna be here. What else, hm?” Derek tugs at Spencer’s beautiful, silky curls. “You said _please_ , but I don’t know what for. What do you want?” He feels his thrusts growing sloppier and more desperate with every passing second—he’s losing stamina, inching ever closer to his tipping point as he keeps Spencer on the edge of his own.

Spencer sobs. “Please, _please_ touch me, please? I’m _so_ so so close. Ah, it _hurts._ You said I was a—a good boy, Der, please, I’m doing a good job, right? I’m—I’m—”

“Shh. Shh, yeah, honey, you’re doin’— _shit_ —a great job. You turn me on so fuckin’ much, baby. So tight. Look at you, all pretty for me, huh?” Derek reaches between them and squeezes Spencer’s cock, just to hear him whine again. “Say please for me one more time?” 

“ _Please._ ”

“That’s my good boy,” Derek whispers. 

It only takes a few strokes before Spencer is cumming into his palm, arching his back and crying his name like it’s something sacred. Derek watches his face as he fucks him through it, awestruck at the thick, black, mascara-tinted tears that roll down his baby’s blushy cheeks.

 _Beautiful,_ he thinks.

Once Spencer has stopped _shaking_ , Derek lifts his cum-coated fingers to Spencer’s mouth, and, despite the fact that Spencer’s so overstimulated that his eyes have practically rolled back in his head, he seemingly automatically parts his pretty, plump lips to suck them dry without being asked. 

This sweet, submissive gesture is all it takes to send Derek toppling over the edge.

He presses his forehead against Spencer’s, thrusts as far as he can up into him, and climaxes with a cry. 

The euphoric heat of the moment overtakes every one of his senses, and Derek temporarily loses touch with reality. He feels, somehow, like he’s both a thousand miles up into the stratosphere _and_ completely fused with Spencer’s body—not just _inside_ him, but _of_ him. 

Derek isn’t quite sure exactly how it happens, but his elbows give out, and he finds himself lying fully on top of Spencer.

He buries his face beneath Spencer’s chin and sucks a spot just above his Adam’s Apple. 

Giggling, Spencer wraps his arms tight around Derek’s neck and kisses his cheek. “ _Mmph_. Hey, you’re _heavy_.” 

Derek laughs. “Two-hundred fifty pounds of solid muscle, baby,” he promises, trying to catch his breath. 

“I know,” Spencer giggles. He gently tugs Derek up to look him in the eyes. 

His pupils are blown so wide that Derek can practically see his reflection staring back at him when he looks down at Spencer, and his makeup is in a state of complete disarray—his lipstick is smeared across his chin, and his mascara has dripped down his cheeks. He looks fucked out, exhausted, and in such bliss that Derek can’t help but smile back at him. “I love your abs. _Love._ But you’re still too heavy.” 

Derek flips them over (without breaking contact - he can’t bear to lose Spencer’s warmth just yet), pulling Spencer on top of his chest and covering both of them with his quilt.

“That better?” He asks, gently combing his fingers through Spencer’s hair, attempting to detangle a few of the knots he’s put there over the course of the night.

Spencer yawns and nuzzles into his chest. “Much. Thank you.”

Derek kisses his forehead and rubs gentle circles into his back, making note of his deep, slow breathing. He’s once again struck by the affectionate awe inherent in being reminded that this _really is Spencer Reid_ , and he gently squeezes him to soak in the feeling of his heartbeat.

Just as Derek is about to fall asleep and all seems right with the world, Spencer rudely cuts through the peace, jabbing him in the cheek with his sharp little finger. 

“ _Ow_ ,” Derek whines, reluctantly opening his eyes. “What?” 

“Do you have any sweets?” Spencer asks. “I worked up my appetite.” 

Derek snorts. “You didn’t work up _shit_. You laid on your back the whole damn time.”

“Actually, during sex and orgasm, the average male’s heart rate is about 18% faster than that of an average male’s during a normal cardio workout, which—”

“Oh, g—shut up. Fine.” 

Spencer, clearly regretting babbling, snuggles into Derek’s neck. “Sorry,” he mutters. 

Derek kisses the top of his head. “Don’t be.”

“Just…really love when you’re wrong about things and I’m right, I guess. It’s hard to contain the excitement.”

Derek rolls his eyes and decides, as tempting as it is, not to take the bait. He doesn’t want to bicker, because they can do that _anywhere_. That’s what’s _expected_ of them. He just wants to hover in this sacred place for just a moment more, drinking in every little obscure piece from which it’s made—the insistent rhythmic ticking of Derek’s old analogue clock on the other side of the room, the delicate ridges of Spencer’s spine beneath his calloused fingertips, and the tickling of Spencer’s slow, sleepy breath against Derek’s neck. 

_If there’s a Heaven_ , he thinks, _I hope it’s like this._

“…But _really_ ,” Spencer says after a few beats, once again disturbing Derek’s bliss. “Do you have sweets?” 

“I have you.” 

“I wanted, like, a cookie or something.” 

Derek sighs.

———————

He tosses Spencer a pint of strawberry ice cream from across the kitchen without thinking, and, predictably, Spencer comes nowhere close to catching it. 

It falls at his feet with a soft _thud._

“That’s Garcia’s,” Derek explains, sitting down in the chair across from Spencer. “So it’s unopened, I think. I don’t eat this shit. She keeps it here because she doesn’t like the snacks I have.” 

“Sorry.” Spencer bends to pick it up, and Derek feels an irrational bubble of pride at the way he flinches as he sits back down.

_A job well done._

“No problem. Hey—eat up, pretty boy. Every time I show my mama your picture, she says you look sick.” 

It’s a backhanded, playful comment—the sort of banter that _used_ to be very much acceptable, but could very well _not_ be acceptable here in these uncharted territories. 

The idea that this may not be a nice thing to say to someone one is _dating_ doesn’t even _occur_ to Derek until Spencer emphatically frowns, and Derek goes through all five stages of grief, thinking once again that he’s surely overstepped. 

_Make fun of his body after you sleep with him,_ he scolds himself. _Good going._

“You show your mom my pictures?” Spencer asks. There’s an obnoxious twinge of amusement to his voice. 

Derek lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Yeah.” 

Spencer pulls the lid off of the ice cream and sticks the spoon Derek’s handed him into the pristine layer of pink. “…Do you…show her Hotch’s pictures?” 

“No.”

“What about Rossi?”

“No. Why would I—? What are you talking about?”

Smirking, Spencer pulls the spoon to his lips. “So I’m different?” 

Derek stares at him incredulously. “ _What?_ ”

“I’m just _saying_ ,” Spencer grins. “You show your mom pictures of me, but not other men you work with. It’s almost like you _like_ me.”

Derek blinks. “What the hell are you talking about? Of course I like you. We just had sex.” 

“Sure, we did,” Spencer agrees, setting his spoon down to stick his probably-less-than-clean fingers into Penelope’s brand new ice cream. “But it’s nice to hear that directly.” 

“Hear what?”

“That you have a crush on me.”

Derek picks up the spoon and gently whacks Spencer on the knuckle. “Use the spoon. A _crush_? Are we twelve now?” 

Spencer puts his ice cream-coated fingers into his mouth and gives them a _gratuitously_ sloppy lick. (And _God_ , if Derek were five years younger, he just might have tackled him again right there for a round two on the kitchen tabletop.) 

Derek is expecting him to speak—to say something so smart that it makes a full 360 and winds up coming out mindblowningly stupid—but he just shrugs, and Derek realizes, with a nauseating pang of guilt, that he’s embarrassed him. 

“I _do_ have a…crush on you, though,” he promises, and it feels childish in all the same ways that Christmas morning and hugging his mama and Penelope’s office do. “I swear it.” 

Spencer smiles. “Also, uh…Derek?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you a real question?”

Derek pulls the spoon from his mouth. “Go ahead.” 

“You said something, um, earlier, that I’ve been thinking about?” 

“Okay. Which is?”

Spencer presses his lips together. “Um. When we were…I said, _I want you_ , and you said _I’m always gonna be here._ ” 

Derek nods. “Mhm. So?” 

“Did you…I mean, are you? Did you mean that?”

“I hope so.” 

Spencer grins down at his lap. “Okay,” he whispers. “I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😳😳😳😳  
> Hopefully this was not painfully awkward to read, but if it was, I'd love to hear how I could fix that! You know the drill if you've read this far - comments inspire me and I'll love you forever if you tell me what you think!
> 
> I have one or two more chapters planned for this one, and I'll be posting ON TIME next week, I promise! 
> 
> If you're eager to keep up with me in the mean time, hit me up at m0rcia.tumblr.com :)


	7. Safe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Giving it some serious thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! Hope you've had a good week!
> 
> This week, I want to shoutout my TWO (?!?!?!??!!??!?!?) incredible beta readers, rxseinbloom and svn-flower-cm :') ily
> 
> Please enjoy the chapter!!!

Spencer told Derek on Friday night that he was  _ not a virgin.  _

This wasn’t a lie, but despite the fact that he’s technically not a virgin, Spencer has had sex all of _ four  _ times in his twenty-seven years, so this weekend has been  _ fascinating _ . He feels as if he’s been reborn here in Derek Morgan’s bedroom - it’s 7:36 AM on Monday, and he’s not the same man he had been when he’d stepped in here at 10:14 PM on Friday.

Spencer’s learned a _ lot _ about himself over the course of the past few days, nearly the entirety of which he’s spent tangled in Derek’s cotton sheets. He’s learned that he likes the feeling of hands around his throat and wrapped up in his hair. He’s learned that he likes being slapped - not too hard, but not too soft, either.

Most of all, Spencer has learned that, despite the fact that he enjoys being manhandled, he’s entirely enamored with  _ softness. Intimacy.  _

He likes sex better on his back with Derek between his legs, no less on top of him than he is inside him. It feels  _ sweeter _ . Spencer likes being able to see his lover, kiss him,  _ feel  _ him, because it reminds him that, at least for the moment, Derek is irrefutably  _ there _ . 

Of course, it’s not as if he  _ forgets _ that Derek is with him while he’s fucking into him and gripping his hips, but Spencer can’t kiss him when he’s on his front like this (at least, not without risking a neck injury that neither of them have any desire to explain to Hotch), and he misses that gentle reminder of tender affection when he’s on his hands and knees.

One thing Spencer  _ does  _ like about being on his hands and knees (or, his  _ knees _ , rather - his arms had given out long ago, and he’s had his face buried in Derek’s pillow for a good half hour) is that he comes across less  _ needy _ . With the fabric pressed up against his mouth, his obnoxious, desperate whining sounds are stifled, and a shred of his dignity is preserved.

Derek likes the whining.

He likes to hear him.

“Spencer,” Derek breathes as Spencer makes a conscious effort not to drool on the pillow case. 

Spencer whines. It’s a low-effort acknowledgement of his lover’s attention; he’s far too spent to lend his typical eloquence. Frankly, he’s nowhere _ near  _ used to this much stimulation, and he’s feeling a little lightheaded and out of his element. 

Derek slides a hand into his hair and gives it a forceful tug, to which Spencer can only whine again. “C’mon, baby,” he mutters. “Be sweet. Up.” 

He doesn’t want to deny Derek, lest he ruin the favorable impression he’s given him over the course of the past 48 hours, ( _ ‘good boy,’ ‘so good for me,’ ‘who’s my sweet boy?’ _ ), so he forces himself laboriously up onto his hands and lets Derek pull him upright until they are pressed back-to-chest. He likes being in the older man’s arms—Derek’s warmth combined with the familiar scent of safety and courage he carries everywhere with him makes Spencer feel sleepy, secure, and loved.

Derek mouths at Spencer’s neck from behind. “Such a good boy,” he whispers. He pinches Spencer’s nipple between his index finger and thumb. “I wanna…wanna try one more thing, baby boy. Just an idea. You can say no, remember. You can always…always say no to me, yeah? Got it?” 

“Mhm.” 

“Yeah? You’ll…oh, f—fuck, babe.  _ Shit, _ you feel good, hold on.”

Spencer feels a pathetic spark of pride at that.The fact that he’s managed to get  _ Derek Morgan  _ overwhelmed to the point of shaking thighs and garbled speech sends a shot down his spine, and he leans lovingly back against his lover’s chest. 

“Okay,” Derek whispers, pulling Spencer’s hips back into him. “I wanna try somethin’ else, jus’... before we go. I wanna...I wanna tie you up, babe.”

Spencer stills.

It’s not that it’s an especially unwelcome suggestion, nor is it even  _ surprising _ , really. 

What’s  _ surprising  _ is the way every single one of Spencer’s hairs seem to stand on end at once, and the way his core seems to immediately fill with heat at the idea of  _ vulnerability _ , a state of which he’s never been particularly fond. 

He can’t find it in him to move, mostly for fear that if he _ does _ , if he adds friction to this already-loaded equation, he’ll  _ combust _ .

“You can say no,” Derek hurriedly reminds him, mistaking his  _ need _ , his  _ visceral ache,  _ for discomfort. 

Spencer shakes his head, his movements twitchy with loaded anticipation.

“Please,” he whispers.

* * *

Derek lies Spencer on his back and ties his wrists together above his head with a silk necktie. (Spencer loves silk in all things, and Derek knows this - it’s never itchy or harsh.)

He fucks Spencer just the way he likes it: deep, hard, and loving, with his lips pressed to the younger man’s neck and his hands tugging at the roots of his hair. 

Spencer breathes Derek in as deeply as he can manage and makes note, once again, of his comforting scent. 

_ I’m safe here _ , he thinks, almost involuntarily.  _ Even naked, even tied up, I’m safe here.  _

Derek is strong and warm. He covers Spencer’s body with his own and manages to be both rough  _ and _ gentle with every thrust. There’s a message in the way he moves, and, although Spencer has yet to fully decipher it, he thinks he understands the idea. 

The last lingering traces of the uncertainty he had felt here on Friday finally dissolve beneath the silk that binds his wrists. 

_ I’m safe here. _

Closing his eyes, Spencer wraps his legs around Derek’s hips and relaxes into the mattress. He gives himself over.

“I trust you,” he whispers.

He’s speaking nearly as much to himself as he is to Derek:

_ I trust him. I trust him wholly. _

_ I am safe here. _

_ I am safe with him. _

Derek slides his hands up to where Spencer’s delicate wrists are bound together and tugs lightly at the silk. 

“Thank you,” he replies.

* * *

They shower together, Spencer so exhausted and fucked-out that he can hardly stand upright.

Derek holds him against his chest and gently works shampoo into his scalp, whispering words that Spencer can’t quite make out over the rush of the water.

It’s sweet, soft, and nearly ethereal—the steam that fills the room makes Derek look like a god or an angel of some sort, and Spencer finds himself closing his eyes and drifting in fantasy for several blissful moments.

* * *

Once he’s dried off and has regained the majority of his consciousness, Spencer sits on Derek’s bed in nothing but his underwear and a cardigan and attempts to do his makeup with a handheld mirror.

For the most part, he’s fairly successful - he neatly reapplies his lipstick the way Penelope had taught him ( _ broad edge against the bottom lip, sharp edge against the top lip _ ), then pulls his trusty silver canister of blush out of his satchel and uses his fancy new brush to dust it across his cheekbones.

Derek watches Spencer work with an admiration that makes him feel important, as though he holds some level of expertise.

After a moment, Derek pulls him back into his lap. (Spencer appreciates the way he’s careful not to bump the mirror or his elbow and ruin the sacred process of blush application, but the gratitude quickly dwindles into uncertain sadness as he realizes that Derek must’ve learned this from his various Girl Of The Weeks. Spencer considers the fact that he may very well soon become Boy Of The Week. He tries not to think about it.) 

“You’re _ so _ pretty,” Derek murmurs against Spencer’s neck, wrapping both of his arms around the younger man’s slender torso. “I can’t take it.”

Spencer shudders at the warmth of Derek’s breath, regains his composure, and continues on with applying the blush. 

“Thank you,” he replies, aiming for curtness and sounding nothing short of strained.

Still clutching Spencer like a lifeline, Derek rubs at the soft, red fabric of his briefs, just below where the elastic digs ever-so-slightly into his hip. 

“Hey, pretty boy. Would you ever wear lace for me?” Derek asks into the space beneath his jaw. 

Spencer is caught off-guard by the suddenness of the question, but not the idea in and of itself. It’s unsurprising, really, that Derek wants to see him present as comely and delicate, and he’s not at all opposed.

“I’d do anything for you,” Spencer promises, not giving a moment of thought to the answer. He means it—he’d cross hell and high water for Derek and not regret a moment of it. He hopes, though, that this is not evident. “I mean, we can try anything you want,” he clarifies. “Um, in bed.”

“Hmm. Well, I’m honored,” Derek chuckles.

He slips a hand between Spencer’s thighs, and Spencer ( _ hating _ himself for being the bigger, less horny person in this situation) grabs his wrist. 

“Hey,” he says. “Work? We  _ really _ need to be at work on time today. We went in late together on Thursday, remember? Hotch is gonna start wondering.”

“Ugh.” Derek bites at his neck. “You know what? Fuck Hotch, man. We can call out  _ once _ . I’ve shown up to that office on time every single day for  _ ten years _ , we—” 

“ _ No _ ,” Spencer says, swatting him away. “People are probably - getting  _ killed _ , and, and...stuff. I dunno, but we - we seriously have to get ready to go.” 

He gently pushes Derek off of him and stands up to head for his bag.

Derek flops back against the mattress as though he’s been shot. 

“You’re killin’ me, sugar,” he calls after Spencer. “I’m heartbroken. Really.”

“Poor thing,” Spencer answers, trying to keep the smile out of his voice.

* * *

Showing up at work to play  _ Mr. Serious FBI Guy _ after hours of nonstop, mind-blowing sex has never been especially easy for Derek, but the act is far more stressful when it’s no longer a matter of a playful  _ wink-wink  _ exchange with Emily, (“ _ Got lucky, huh? _ ”) but of  _ job security _ .

He sits next to Spencer at his desk in the pen and tries to pretend like nothing had happened over the weekend. It’s somewhat miserable, really—every time he looks over at Spencer with some ballpoint pen between his plump, pink lips, he feels like he could  _ lose his mind _ . 

For the first time that week, Derek begins to doubt himself. 

_ Is this a good idea?  _

_ How long, realistically, can we keep this up? _

He doesn’t think he wants to know the answer.

After nearly half an hour of working in silence and pretending to be  _ normal co-workers _ , Spencer thrusts the corner of a folder two inches over onto Derek’s desk, _ exactly  _ the way Derek hates. It’s a game of casual rivalry that they’ve played for quite some time, and now, it’s an extension of a hand of friendship on Spencer’s part. 

_ An invitation to make this less weird. _

Derek gladly takes the bait.

He forcefully shoves the folder back onto Spencer’s desk, and Spencer jabs it once again over the line separating the two of them. Derek, following their usual motions, grabs Spencer’s thin, slight wrist and twists it back towards his shoulder blade.

When he locks eyes with his desk mate, though, there’s something in his face that isn’t usually present in this game;  _ something _ consisting of blown pupils and wet, parted lips. 

Derek stares down at Spencer and feels his heart rate begin to pick up.

_ He likes this,  _ Derek realizes. 

**_I_ ** _ like this. _

Knowing fully well that he’s a mere moment from doing something deeply inappropriate that he will  _ surely _ regret, Derek drops Spencer’s wrist and sits down hard.

“D—Morgan,” Spencer stammers. “I’m sorry, I—”

“It’s okay,” Derek promises. “It’s...it’s okay, kid. I’m gonna get some coffee. I’ll...do you want one?”

Spencer buries his face in his palms and nods. 

Derek wants nothing more than to pull Spencer into his arms and kiss his sorrows away. Much to his dismay, however, under the watchful eyes of the workplace, there’s nothing he can do but clap Spencer on the shoulder, stand up, and leave him there alone.

* * *

Prentiss corners Derek in the break room with a frown and a hand on her hip.

“What do you want?” He asks, poking at her with the same faux-rudeness he always does. He and Emily have built their friendship upon bickering and playful mockery, but Derek can’t shake the feeling that this current display of displeasure is not quite so playful. Everything seems to be changing lately.

“Is this a good idea?” Emily demands. 

“Is...what a good idea?” Derek asks. “Black coffee for breakfast? Probably not.” 

Emily looks over her shoulder, as though she’s afraid they’re being followed. “ _ Reid _ ,” she mutters. “Do you  _ really  _ think screwing Reid is a good idea?” 

Derek’s heart nearly stops. 

“Excuse me?” He bluffs, hoping to buy some time. “ _ Who’s _ screwing Reid?”

“ _ Morgan _ ,” Emily protests. “Cut it out. I _ know _ , okay?”

Derek sighs and looks over his shoulder, the same way Emily had moments ago. (He reflects, now, on the fact that she’d done this in an effort to keep his secret, and wonders whether she might be in their corner.) 

“How did you...?” 

“Well,” Emily starts, setting her mug down. “You...drove him in this morning, for one. He usually takes the metro on Mondays. You were starin’ him down like nobody’s business at the desk over there. Your pupils were dilated when you stepped away, by the way.”

“ _ Hey. _ Inter-team profiling,” Derek protests, one finger jabbed in her direction. “That’s foul play, Prentiss.” 

Emily rolls her eyes. 

“I can’t help it. If I’m getting the sense that something serious is up, the profiling kicks in on its own.”

“You’re fuckin’ nosy,” Derek says, eyebrows raised.

“Hey—you did the  _ exact _ same thing with JJ and Will, so don’t act all innocent. And anyway…” 

Prentiss trails off. 

“What?” Derek demands. 

“…Uh, Garcia told me about it, so that…helped.” 

_ God dammit.  _

This is not the first time Derek has run into this situation—as fantastic as Penelope is, he often  _ really _ wishes he had a different number one confidant. Penelope Garcia has all the security and secrecy of a ziplock bag. 

Derek groans.

“Of  _ course  _ she did.”

“Aw, hey. Don’t be mad at her,” Emily pleads. “It wasn’t her fault. JJ and I squeezed it out of her.” 

“Wait. Did you guys go out this weekend?” 

“Yeah.” 

“You have a DD?” (It’s really not the  _ first  _ thing on his mind, but Derek likes to know that his girls are safe when they go out to do god-knows-what.)

“Yeah. Hotch. But—that’s not important. He didn’t hear anything. He just took us home after. Anyway, it wasn’t her fault. She looked so excited, we just wanted to know what was going on. All that’s beside the point, though, Derek. Just...think about this, okay? What’s gonna happen if you get caught? What’s gonna happen if it doesn’t work out?”

Derek grips the edges of his mug and stares at his shoes. He attempts a light-hearted tone.

“I don’t have answers,” he tells her. “Can’t spring shit on me like that.”

“Just think about it, okay?” Emily pleads softly. 

She picks her mug back up, gives Derek a long, worried glance, and leaves him alone there to stare forlornly at the microwave until someone shoves the door open. 

Derek jumps. 

Spencer is standing in the doorway, fiddling with the strap on his satchel and biting at his lip, looking as though he desperately wants to say something, but has no idea what.

Derek breathes a sigh of relief;  _ at least it’s not Hotch.  _

“Spencer. Baby. Hey.” Derek holds out the mug he’d dumped half a cup of sugar into, and Spencer takes it gingerly. “Um. How much of that did you hear?”

“Most of it,” Spencer mutters. “I was just wondering what was taking you so long.”

He doesn’t elaborate. 

Derek swears he can feel his heart shatter.

“Let’s just...get back to work, yeah?” Derek asks. “People are probably  _ getting killed, or something _ .”

So they do - they get back to work, functioning the same way they always have, pretending nothing had ever happened. Derek brushes aside the urge to kiss Spencer’s forehead no less than six times, and, no less than six times, he finds himself regretting it.

* * *

Derek agrees to take Spencer home. 

Neither of them say anything once they’ve left the building, and the silence between the two of them feels thick and precarious, as though some sort of floodgate will open if Derek starts to chip at it. 

Somehow, the flood feels inevitable.

Once they’ve sat down in Derek’s car and escaped the cruel sharpness of the early December wind chill, Spencer noticeably gazes over at the streetlight they’d been under the night they’d first kissed. 

“What’s goin’ on up there?” Derek asks, gently placing his hand on Spencer’s cheek. “Something on your mind?” 

“Always,” Spencer mutters. 

“Yeah? What is it?” 

“I’m thinking about what Emily said. And…whether she might be right.”

“About…?” Derek asks, fervently attempting to ignore the way his stomach drops. 

“About us. About…this. This…?”

“Relationship?” Derek offers. ( _ Please say yes _ , he thinks. God, he couldn’t  _ bear _ to go back to the same emptiness with which he'd lived for so long.)

“ _ Relationship.  _ Yeah. Is this…really a good idea? Can we actually do this?”

Spencer’s accentuated eyelashes and flushed cheeks give a sort of feminine delicateness to his appearance, and the worry that lines his big brown eyes strikes something sacred in Derek’s core.

Whatever he had told himself before, he realizes _ now  _ that he can’t just let this  _ end _ . 

“Okay. Look.” Derek grabs Spencer’s perpetually restless hands, and they still in his grasp. “I don’t  _ know _ , kid. I know that’s not what you wanna hear, but I don’t have answers. I don’t know if this is a good idea. I don’t know what’s gonna happen with us. I don’t know if we’re gonna get in trouble. I  _ don’t know. _ ” 

Spencer looks down, nods, and attempts to pull his hands away. 

“You’re right,” he whispers. 

“But, hey,” Derek continues, squeezing his fingers, “listen to me, okay? I  _ never _ have any idea what tomorrow’s gonna look like. Hell, I can’t even  _ guess _ . You and I and the rest of the team, we  _ never _ can. This job is  _ so _ fucking...unpredictable. How many times have I almost lost you?”

Spencer opens his mouth to answer, but Derek is on a roll with his monologue, and he doesn’t want an  _ actual number _ , for God’s sake, so he cuts him off before he can speak. “ _ Too many _ . Too many, I…too much shit is uncertain for us. I can’t play it safe and let the  _ best thing in my life  _ get away from me because I wasn’t man enough to deal with the consequences,  _ especially  _ not when I know that we might not get another day.”

Spencer stares straight ahead with tearful eyes for such a long time that Derek considers putting the car in drive and pretending he hadn’t said anything. 

He could bring Spencer back home and pretend that the past week had never happened, couldn’t he? 

If neither of them ever spoke of any of this again, would it ever have been real at all? Would any of it matter?

_ Stupid _ , Derek thinks.

_ Of course, _ it was real. 

_ Of course, _ it mattered.

Whatever it was, it was  _ real _ , it had shaken him to his very core. 

_ There’s no coming back from this.  _

After a fretful moment, Spencer clears his throat and looks down at where Derek is gripping his hand, just the same way he had in the hospital last week. 

“Psychologists think that when an individual is recovering from a trauma or, um, dealing with a—a traumatic  _ situation _ , it’s extremely helpful to have a sort of…constant,” he says. “A metaphorical ‘rock,’ if you will, that—that keeps them from breaking down, and…helps them feel safe.” Spencer looks into Derek’s eyes and swallows hard. “I always feel safe with you,” he whispers. “ _ Always _ .” 

It’s said cautiously, and Derek can tell that Spencer is in an insecure place. Somehow, he seems even more vulnerable than he had naked and beneath Derek in bed. He realizes—really,  _ really  _ realizes, for the first time—that Spencer might just love him, too. 

His father had said something once about real love being  _ difficult, but worth it. _

Was this what he had meant?

Is  _ love  _ this new reckless willingness to risk botched desk-sharing and the wrath of Aaron Hotchner for the desperately artificial taste of strawberry-watermelon lip gloss?

Is  _ love  _ what had drawn him into a heavily armed hostage situation, he himself armed with nothing but a glock and the desperate need to feel Spencer’s heartbeat against his chest? 

Is  _ love  _ the ability to stare down the career he had painstakingly built over the course of his thirty-five years and decide that he’d throw it to the wind for curls on his pillowcase and stacks of books littering his living room floor?

_ Yes,  _ he decides.

_ Yes, it is.  _

Derek smiles. 

“You _ should _ feel safe with me,” he says. “You are. I can promise you that. Let’s get you home.” 

He kisses Spencer’s cheek and sits back down in the driver’s seat, all the while grinning so widely that he thinks his cheeks might burst. It’s been years since he’d last felt the exhilaration of _ real love _ , and in this moment, he feels young again. He wants to stay this way forever.

Spencer leans back against his headrest and fiddles with a loose thread at the bottom of his sweater. 

“Do you think I could actually…stay at your place again, maybe?” 

Derek reaches across the center console and puts a hand on Spencer’s thigh. “Isn’t that what I said?” 

The chill outside is harsh, but the warm air flowing gradually into the car takes all of its bite away. At this moment, Derek feels isolated in the best way possible.  Spencer's endearing, celestial flush leaves him giddily lightheaded with the impression of a new beginning. 

Nothing beyond the two of them together, sated and comfortable, feels tangible.

Derek could be left intrinsically abandoned by his responsibilities, but as long as he was left with Spencer, he would be happy.

“Yeah,” Spencer whispers, glossy lips twitching into a smile. “I suppose it is.”

_ fin. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's a wrap! 
> 
> Thanks so much for sticking around until the end. I'm proud of myself for finishing something this long (125 pages 12-pt double-spaced, if we're keeping score) but at the same time, I'm almost kinda sad that it's over, haha. 
> 
> If you want to keep up with my other projects, hear what else I have to say about CM, or just be friends, I live at www.m0rcia.tumblr.com !!
> 
> What did you think of this chapter? Sequel? Any random thoughts you want to share? Please leave a comment! Love y'all! ❤️


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